


Rose Petals and Peonies

by softsweaterskeletonboi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Child Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Past Child Abuse, Punklock, Sherlock’s dad is a piece of a shit, Trans Sherlock, Translock, Unilock, good people being good, lestrade is sherlock's adoptive dad here too, trigger warning, yay for lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsweaterskeletonboi/pseuds/softsweaterskeletonboi
Summary: AU where John is a uni student working in a flower shop next to a tattoo parlor. Things change when punk, flirtatious Sherlock Holmes shows up. However, things quickly turn serious, as the two become entangled in ways they never thought they could.





	1. Sherlock Is A Girls Name

John Watson didn’t mind working in the flower shop. It was a pretty laid back job, and he loved gardening anyway. Sure, it was located right across from the most notorious tattoo shop in town - one rumored to be frequented by gang members and drug addicts - but the front of the tattoo parlor was aesthetically pleasing, and John never really had to interact with any of the shop’s customers or artists.  
That didn’t stop him from watching them, though.  
He was doing just so when he saw the interesting man for the first time. He sat on the counter, eyes scanning the front lobby of the tattoo parlor through the shop’s glass front, when t  
e sight of something new caught his attention. A head full of brunette, lazy curls, slightly trimmed. The head turned and revealed its face - an angular, pale canvas punctuated with miscellaneous studs and rings. Bright green eyes that snapped around and met John’s, the beautiful smile fading almost instantly. The man - teen, really, he couldn’t have been older than twenty - turned halfway and said something to one of the other artists. A different artist replied. Smirking, the teen turned back towards John and slowly gave him the bird.  
The other artists roared with laughter as John blushed bright red, raising his hand awkwardly before hopping off the countertop and slipping towards the back of the store. He could still feel their eyes on him as he tried to look busy, reshelving small succulents and trying to ignore the heat burning his face. He didn’t find it safe to venture out again until twenty minutes later, when the artists had all dispersed to their customers and he was free to sit on the countertop again and read. Another hour passed, and then it was two hours until closing time. Not a single customer all day. John was sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind if he closed a bit early…

Twenty minutes later, John was locking the flower shop’s front door with the ancient, silver key when he heard somebody wolf whistle behind him. His cheeks once again bright red, he swallowed audibly and turned to face his cat-caller. He was unsurprised when it turned out to be the new kid at the tattoo shop, smirking lips wrapped around a cigarette. The teen’s black jeans were torn with holes, and the ratty band tee he wore - some American band John had only vaguely heard of - had the sleeves cut off and hung like drapes on the teen’s skinny frame. John sighed as he approached him.  
“Can I help you, mate?”  
“What’s a vanilla bloke like you doing in this part of town?” The teen exhaled smoke slowly, his smirk only widening as he sexed John up with his eyes. John rolled his own, shaking his head.  
“Just trying to work, mind you. Didn’t your mum ever teach you it’s rude to catcall?”  
“They only teach that to straight men,” the other man took a long draw off his cigarette. “And girls aren’t really my area, mate.”  
“Well can I at least know your name?”  
The teen was back to smirking, running the back of his hand over his mouth - was he wearing lipstick? John realized with a small flutter in his stomach - and pulling at the several lip rings that rested there.  
“Name’s Sherlock.”  
John scoffed. “Yeah right.”  
“It is!” Sherlock huffed indignantly.  
“Sounds like a girl’s name to me.”  
“Well shit,” Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Is that a good enough reason for you to bang me?”  
John’s eyes widened and he stuttered. “I’m sorry, what?”  
“Since you’re into girls and I have a girl’s name,” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, exhaling smoke again. “Maybe having the name makes me enough of a girl for you to fuck.”  
John shook his head. “Even if I was straight, mate, you’ve got some bad pickup tactics.”  
Sherlock walked closer until they were toe-to-toe, looming over John with a satisfied smirk on his face. John swallowed and hoped his arousal wasn’t too obvious.  
“So you’re not straight? That’s all I needed to know.”  
And with that, he dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and walked back into the tattoo shop.


	2. No Feelings, Holmes

The first thing John looked for the next morning before even unlocking the flower shop’s front door was the tell-tale mop of curls belonging to Sherlock. When he found him through the glass - seated in a chair, tattooing some girl’s tit - and wow, John didn’t like the way that made his stomach churn - he unlocked the door and let himself into the flower shop to open. He took a large sip from his coffee and sat it on the counter, flipping every light switch on the wall into the ‘on’ position as he did so. Rose Petals and Peonies was officially open for business.  
John settled onto the countertop, flipping open his book and preparing for a long day in which he could finish it, but was interrupted by the bell above the shop door. Sherlock sauntered towards him, carrying two coffees, stopping short when he caught sight of John’s cup on the counter.  
“Oh,” he muttered, his cheeks going rosy. “I see you...already have coffee.”  
It was John’s turn to smirk. “Aw, you brought me coffee! How cute.”  
“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered, his cheeks going even redder. “I was just trying to be nice.”  
John reached out and plucked the second cup from his hands. “I was almost out, anyway. So thanks.”  
“Whatever,” Sherlock shrugged in an attempt to appear nonchalant, his eyes looking anywhere but John. “Glad to see you made it in through the rain.”  
“You too.”  
Sherlock nodded without saying a word and sauntered back out of the shop, staring contemplatively into his own coffee cup as he did so. Smiling to himself, John took a sip of the coffee Sherlock had given him, then chuckled. Vanilla flavored.

John couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock got a certain clientele. Mostly girls. Hot girls, skinny, with long hair and curvy bodies, all of them wanting their boobs or their ass or the stomach tattooed. John watched them all obsessively, watched the way Sherlock’s hand spread their skin as he tattooed them.  
_Girls aren’t really my area._  
And Sherlock had brought him coffee that morning.  
John didn’t realize he was staring until Sherlock’s bright green eyes were staring back at him. He blinked and shook himself, pulling his attention back to the book he held in his hands, gaze sliding out of the words distractedly. It was going to be a longer day than usual.

Sherlock felt heat rise to his cheek as he realized the flower shop boy was staring at him from across the street. With his tongue like cotton, he finished wrapping the girl’s tattoo and tried not to let his cheeks go any redder.  
“Thanks!” The girl chirped as she slid out of his chair and towards the front counter to pay. Sherlock nodded to her once, turning his gaze to the window and catching the flower shop boy’s own soft brown stare. He tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. The other man looked away suddenly, seeming - what? Scared? Disgusted?  
“I need a cigarette,” Sherlock muttered to the shop’s owner, Tony, and stepped out before Tony could protest. Standing on the corner of the sidewalk, he lit a menthol, staring resolutely at his boots as he took a draw.  
_What happened to no feelings, Holmes?_  
Sherlock shook his head back and forth like a shaggy dog, trying to shut his brain up. He wasn’t falling for the flower shop kid. Some flirting and a cup of coffee meant nothing, not in the grand scheme of things.  
“Um, hey.”  
Sherlock jumped, head snapping up to see the flower shop boy. He was wearing khakis and a soft-looking jumper, his sandy hair combed handsomely to the side. He was looking at Sherlock with those warm brown eyes.  
“So, I’d like to pay you back for the coffee. You got time for lunch later on?”  
Sherlock nearly dropped his cigarette.  
“Only if it involves a date in the bathroom.” His voice came out smoother than he could have ever imagined; he put on a smirk. John rolled his eyes.  
“I was thinking the diner down the street, around twelve thirty. Sound good?”  
Sherlock took a long draw off his cigarette, sure that the boy could hear his heart thumping against his chest.  
“Sure.” He licked his lips nervously. “But if you’re gonna take me to lunch, I should at least get to know your name.”  
“John,” John was walking back towards the flower shop, a smile dominating his face. “John Watson. See you at twelve thirty.”  
He winked before he slipped back into the flower shop. Sherlock finished his cigarette with a fluttering stomach.  
_What happened to no feelings, Holmes?_


	3. Speedy's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go out on their first date, and subsequently end up discussing their life stories.

At twelve thirty, John swallowed his anxiety and boldly walked into the Undead Ink tattoo shop. The girl at the desk - covered in so many tattoos there wasn’t any bare skin left - arched a pierced eyebrow at him. “Can I help you?”  
“I’m looking for Sherlock. We’re supposed to be - getting lunch together.” John’s eyes darted nervously to the floor. The girl let out a laugh.  
“Fox,” she called to the back of the parlor. “Take a break. Your lunch date’s here.”  
The entire parlor erupted into wolf whistles. Sherlock ducked out of one of the back rooms, looking abashedly at the floor as the wolf whistles followed him to the front of the parlor.  
“Hi,” he smiled embarrassedly at John. “Sorry about them. They’re all a bunch of children.”  
“We’re a bunch of children?” The girl guffawed and threw a wad of paper at him. “Get out of here.”  
Sherlock motioned for John to follow as he made his way towards the door.  
“Have fun on your lunch date, Fox!” The girl called after them.

“Fox?” John inquired as they began their way down the street. Sherlock lit a cigarette.  
“A nickname they gave me after they saw my tattoo.”  
“Tattoo?”  
Sherlock smirked. “I usually wait until the third date to show men that part of me.”  
John blushed and spluttered. Sherlock chuckled, bunching up the side of his shirt as they continued to walk. He turned to show John the impressive fox that took up part of his rib cage, spreading down over his abdomen and stomach.  
“Wow,” John said softly, looking it over. “That looks amazing.”  
“Thanks,” Sherlock dropped his shirt. “I got it after a year of being sober.”  
He wasn’t sure what made him tell John the second part - he hardly knew the kid, and very, very few people got to know about his _condition_. John was staring at the ground now as they walked, looking awkward.  
“Sorry,” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls and stared at the ground as well. “You probably didn’t want to know all that.”  
“Sober from what?”  
Sherlock took a long, anxious draw off his cigarette before responding. “Heroin, coke, alcohol, ecstasy, crack, you name it…” He swallowed, looking away, suddenly embarrassed by how much he was talking. “Heroin, mostly, though. It was really my vice.”  
“Oh,” John nodded. “That’s...cool. I mean - it’s good that you’re sober.”  
“Yeah,” They came to a halt in front of the diner - Speedy’s. “Anyway, I got the tattoo and then - one night I showed up at the parlor really drunk and shirtless, and they all saw the tattoo, and someone called Lestrade, and - yeah, it’s a nickname now.”  
He really needed to stop talking. He focused on finishing his cigarette.  
“Lestrade…” John looked thoughtfully at the sky. “Like Detective Inspector Lestrade?”  
“Yeah,” Sherlock huffed out a laugh, pulling his denim jacket on closer around him. “My foster dad, basically.”  
“Oh,” John nodded slowly. “That’s cool. I didn’t know he fostered.”  
“Well, he normally doesn’t, but my brother paid him, so…”  
Sherlock mentally kicked himself. He was really spilling his life story to this man he had just met not even a day ago.  
“Shall we go inside?” He asked, throwing his cigarette on the ground. John smiled at him as they made their way into the diner.

John laughed when Sherlock ordered nothing but a small latte and a bag of crisps.  
“What?” the grungy-looking brunette said indignantly. John took a small moment to admire him; his bright blue pants were as patch-studded as his jacket, and covered in safety pins. He was wearing the same blue colored crop top over a mesh undershirt, the pale skin peeking through the mesh holes.  
“You really should eat more.” John replied.  
“I eat enough,” Sherlock huffed, settling into a booth with his knees pulled to his chest. He took a sip of his latte.  
“You literally look like you’re ninety pounds,” John chided as he took the booth seat opposite. “And can you not sit like a normal bloke?”  
“I’m gay. Gay people don’t sit normally.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, opening his bag of crisps.  
“If you say so,” John chuckled, pouring a splash of cream into his coffee. Sherlock was watching him, a gentle smile playing on his lips.  
“What?” John stirred his coffee, arching an eyebrow at Sherlock.  
“I’ve spilled my guts to you, Watson. Tell me a bit about yourself.”  
Oh boy. John took a deep breath.  
“Well, I’m a med student, first and foremost. My um, my mum and dad got divorced, and my sister Harry, she’s - she’s an alcoholic. And uh, my dad, well - he was an abusive piece of shit, but he died, and - and now it’s just my mom and Harry and I.”  
Sherlock was staring at him, his gaze piercing John to his core. He looked down into his coffee mug.  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly, taking another sip of his latte. John shrugged.  
“It is what it is.” His food arrived, carried by a kind-looking waitress with teased up hair. “Tell me more about being Lestrade’s foster kid.”  
“Oh geez,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, popping a crisp into his mouth and chewing. “About ten years ago, I was homeless. By choice, really, I had run away from my brother’s house and...yeah. I was at rock bottom, in the throes of my addiction. One night, I was really high, and doing...not so savory things with a drug supplier in an alleyway when Lestrade caught us. He took me to Scotland Yard, called my brother….well, turns out my brother didn’t want me, and he offered Lestrade a sum to look after me for him. Lestrade, more out of the kindness of his heart than anything, agreed. He took me in, fed me, clothed me, helped me get clean, helped me get my first job, and even saw me through to my own place. I still talk to him every now and then.”  
“Wow,” John shook his head. “And I thought I had it bad.”  
“You do have it bad,” Sherlock insisted. “You didn’t ask for the hand you got dealt. Everything that happened to me happened because I either chose it or allowed it to happen. For the most part.”  
John shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich, looking Sherlock over as he chewed. Sherlock was staring absently at the table, apparently lost in thought.  
“So what made you get into tattooing?”  
“Got kicked out of uni,” Sherlock replied automatically. “Relapsed and lost control and got expelled. Tony was a TA and offered me a job as his apprentice at his shop. How did you end up at the flower shop?”  
“Loans,” John picked at his sandwich with a shrug. “Being a med student is quite expensive, you know. And Mrs. Hudson is an old family friend, and she needed help running the store so I offered. Killed two birds with one stone.”  
Sherlock nodded. “So if you didn’t have loans and tuition to pay, would you still work there?”  
“I dunno,” John smirked. “It depends on how far this thing between us goes.”  
He made a small triumphant sound as Sherlock blushed a bright red.  
“If you want me that bad, Watson, I know for a fact that the bathroom here locks from the inside.”  
“Oh shush,” John muttered, smiling. “Finish your crisps.”  
Sherlock grinned, the sides of his eyes crinkling, and did as he was told. They finished the rest of their lunch telling each other jokes with their eyes.

“So,” Sherlock said as they stepped outside. He lit a cigarette and pulled his hood up to protect his hair from the rain.  
“So?”  
“Let me repay your lunch with dinner. Friday? I know this great place, and I know the owner so we can eat for free.”  
John arched an eyebrow at him. Sherlock’s stomach fluttered at how cute the expression was.  
“Second date already?”  
“Unless you would prefer me to keep bringing you coffee in the mornings?”  
“Dinner on Friday would be fine,” John rolled his eyes. “I was just teasing.”  
“You and I have very different definitions of teasing.”  
“Must you make everything dirty?” John sighed dramatically as they came upon their respective shops; Sherlock made work of finishing his cigarette, his next appointment in ten minutes.  
“Always,” He replied, watching John’s ass as the latter walked towards the flower shop. “I’ll see you later?”  
“Always,” John smirked, and disappeared inside the shop.  
Sherlock stared at the ground as he smoked, thinking of his brother. Oh, how disappointed Mycroft would be in him now.


	4. Liquor on Your Lips

Saturday morning, John took himself and his school materials to the coffee shop in the town square, ready to get some studying done before his shift at the flower shop, which opened late on weekends. He ordered his usual - black coffee, light cream, no sugar - and settled into a booth, opening his laptop. All of his paycheque was about to go towards his tuition -  
He stopped, finger frozen on the touchpad as he opened the email from his school’s financial office.

_John Watson,_

_We are pleased to inform you that your overall tuition, present and future, has been fully paid in advance by a generous donor._

He stared, his heart hammering in his chest. Below the first line was a note, supposedly from his donor: _Make good use of it. - SH._  
SH? John swallowed past the lump in his throat and sat back, his mind racing. Who in the hell could SH be?  
The answer popped into his mind just as the actual figure strode into the coffee shop, piercings glinting in the sunlight, not even noticing John as he walked to the counter to order.  
Sherlock.  
Sherlock Holmes.  
As in the _Holmes family._  
One of the notorious Mob families in their part of London.  
The family known for being chaotic vigilantes, even when it meant breaking the law.  
John swallowed again, his hands shaking as he quickly closed the email tab on his browser. Sherlock turned, saw him, and strode over, the heels of his boots clacking against the cafe’s hardwood floors.  
“Hey,” he said casually, sliding into the booth seat opposite John. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”  
“Just came in to do a bit of studying,” John fought to keep his voice under control. “Got an interesting email.”  
“Oh?”  
“About my tuition being paid for the next four years.”  
The color drained from Sherlock’s already pale face. He put on a smile. “That’s fantastic news!”  
“I know it was you,” John shook his head. “SH? Sherlock Holmes? How come you didn’t tell me you came from the Holmes family?”  
Sherlock sighed but didn’t deny it, staring into the lid of his coffee cup silently.  
“You didn’t bother to tell me you come from one of the notoriously violent mob families in London?”  
“I didn’t want to scare you off,” Sherlock huffed, not meeting John’s eyes.  
“So you decided to just pay off all of my tuition?!”  
“It’s not like the money was going to anything else.” Sherlock muttered.  
“More importantly,” John lowered his voice, staring Sherlock down. “What kind of shit did you do to get fostered out?”  
Sherlock licked his lips, looking away.  
“Sherlock.”  
“John,” Sherlock said softly, meeting John’s eyes. “You know me better than anyone else, even in the few short days we’ve been friends. Can I trust you?”

“Of course.” John blinked at him. Sherlock’s heart was stuck in his stomach.  
“I’m trans,” he spit out, letting the words fall from his throat jaggedly. John stared at him, the tension stretching in the silence between them.  
“Trans?” Johns said blankly.  
“Transgender,” Sherlock clarified, clearing his throat. Have to keep the cool demeanor. “Tarnished the family name and all, got addicted to drugs because of it, and my brother wasn’t going to keep me around when I was a disgrace.”  
“So you haven’t got a…” John trailed off, leaning back in his seat as he examined Sherlock more closely.  
“Does it matter?” Sherlock snapped, getting defensive despite himself. “I understand you may no longer want to pursue a romantic relationship with me anymore, but that doesn’t mean we have to drag my genitalia into this conversation.”  
“Who said I didn’t want to pursue a relationship with you anymore?” John retorted, crossing his arms with a frown.  
“I just…” Sherlock faltered. “Wait, what?”  
“Just because you’re trans doesn’t mean I don’t want to date you.” John stated, arching an eyebrow at Sherlock.  
“I wasn’t aware we were officially dating,” Sherlock couldn’t help but counter, his wit too quick for his mouth to block.  
“We were going to be, but I don’t like dating liars.” John said quietly, hunching over his laptop and taking a long sip from his coffee.  
Sherlock felt his heart sink even further. “I was going to tell you eventually. It just didn’t seem like something you bring up on a first date, you know?”  
“I just want to know what I’m getting myself into,” John said bluntly, not looking up from his screen. “I don’t want some asshole to kidnap me and bust up my kneecaps because of family business.”  
“That wouldn’t happen,” Sherlock muttered. “Trust me, I’m very far removed from anything of that sort.”  
“Promise me you won’t keep any more secrets from me,” John looked up at him, their gazes meeting.   
“I promise,” Sherlock nodded. “I don’t want this to end, John.”  
“I don’t either,” John said softly. “Now go, I know you probably have to get to work.”  
“John?” Sherlock said softly, more vulnerable than John ever thought the smooth-talker could be.  
“Yeah, Sherlock?”  
“I’m glad we talked.” And with that, Sherlock stood and left the coffee shop without looking back.

A few days passed without incident since their talk, days filled with flirting and conversation about the most philosophical topics John could think to ask, Sherlock showing off his deduction abilities any time the talk between them fell into a lull.  
“Our waiter,” Sherlock said, as they sat at Angelo’s on Friday night. “Is into BDSM and dominant women.”  
“And how in the hell do you know that?” John arched an eyebrow of surprise.  
“Fading rope marks on his wrists, the hickie on his neck, and the lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “He’s into being tied up, and apparently by a woman.”  
“You got all of that in the three seconds he was over here?”  
Sherlock shrugged. “My brain works faster than normal, for some reason. My brother has the same skill.”  
“Your brother,” John pressed, trying to squeeze more information out of Sherlock about his mysterious sibling.  
“Yes, he exists.” Sherlock replied, playing with the pasta on his plate with his fork.  
“Can I at least know his name?” John asked sweetly, batting his eyelashes at Sherlock. Sherlock met his gaze and sighed dramatically.  
“His name is Mycroft.”  
“Well, your family just loves weird names, huh?”  
Sherlock chuckled. “It is kind of the Holmes legacy, to be honest.”  
“So you chose Sherlock to keep with the theme?”  
“Believe it or not, I am kind of attached to the Holmes name.” Sherlock murmured dryly, still pushing the pasta around on his plate. “Some of their values are justified.”  
“Like murder?”  
“Murder’s only on the table when it’s necessary,” Sherlock replied. John laughed.  
“Not joking,” Sherlock smiled. “Never done by an actual Holmes, of course, my brother and the likes don’t like to get their hands dirty.”  
“What about you?”  
“What about me?”  
“Have you ever...you know, committed murder?”  
Sherlock stared at him with his piercing blue eyes. “Do you really want to know?”  
John blinked, suddenly rethinking his curiosity. “That answer tells me I probably don’t.”  
“I haven’t,” Sherlock clarified, smirking. “But I have busted some kneecaps for my dear brother.”  
“Oh, joy.” John muttered with a dry chuckle, twirling pasta on his fork before eating it. They fell into a soft silence, Sherlock continuing to pick at his food.  
“Eat,” John jabbed his fork at him. “Seriously, I never see you consume food. Surely you must be hungry?”  
“It’s just transport, John.” Sherlock replied. “I only eat when absolutely necessary.”  
“Okay, then when was the last time you ate?”  
“What day is it?”  
John dropped his fork, letting it clatter onto his plate with a sigh. “It’s Friday, Sherlock, and I seriously don’t think you’ve eaten anything since our lunch date on Tuesday. And you barely ate anything there!”  
“Calm down,” Sherlock hissed, looking around them to make sure John hadn’t attracted any attention. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing, John.”  
“I’m making a big deal because my boyfriend refuses to ever eat anything.”  
Sherlock went silent, staring down at his plate. John realized what he said and spluttered, his cheeks going rosy.  
“Not that we’re boyfriends or anything.”  
“Sure, John.”  
“We’re not! We’re just dating.”  
“Whatever you say, John.” Sherlock was trying to hide the smile playing on his lips.  
“Whatever,” John muttered in an embarrassed tone, his cheeks growing even redder. “Since you aren’t going to eat anything, do you want me to walk you home?”  
Sherlock shrugged, standing and pulling his denim jacket from the back of his chair before pulling it on. “Sure.”  
Sherlock’s flat wasn’t too far from Angelo’s, only about a ten minute walk. Sherlock lit a cigarette, stealing glances at John in the darkness as they walked.  
“You drive me crazy sometimes, Sherlock Holmes.”  
Sherlock paused, taking a draw. “Oh?”  
“Your attitude, and your style, and your smoking, and your mysteriousness.” John seemed to be talking to himself, glancing occasionally at the stars above as he did so.   
“Well, thanks for putting up with me.” Sherlock murmured, his voice sincere. They came to a stop outside of 221B. They stood together for a moment.  
“John.”  
“Sherlock?”  
Before John could ask anymore, Sherlock swooped down and kissed him, catching John’s chapped, vanilla-flavored lips with his own smooth ones, tasting like the ghost of liquor. Their bodies were flush for only a moment, their kiss lingering, before Sherlock pulled away, his cigarette laying forgotten and smoldering on the ground below.  
“Thanks for dinner,” he rushed out, before turning on the heel of his boot and starting towards the door of his flat. John watched the sway of his hips as he went, his head spinning, dizzy from the taste of Sherlock’s mouth and the incredibly strong scent of whiskey on Sherlock’s breath. Shaking his head slowly, he turned around and ambled his way to his car.


	5. 3:17 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns more about Sherlock than he would really have liked to.

Two days passed. Sherlock didn’t show up for work on either, even though John kept a careful eye out for him, and waited after the flower shop closed just to see if he had missed Sherlock within the tattoo shop.  
By the third day, John just assumed that Sherlock was sick with the flu or something. At the end of his day, after closing the shop, he got into his car and drove home. He did all of his homework - six hours of it, goddamit - and let himself into bed, cursing the fact that he had classes tomorrow.

His phone rang.  
Peeling one eye open, John turned his head to look at the clock on his bedside table. 3:17 am.  
With a groan, he sat himself up and pulled his smartphone off its charger, wondering who in the hell could be calling this late. Or was it early?  
Shaking his head, John slid the screen towards the ‘answer’ side and put the phone up to his ear.  
“Hello?”  
“Hi,” said a gruff voice, making John flinch in his sleepy state. “Is this John Watson?”  
“Yeah, who is this?”  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade down at Scotland Yard. Look, I don’t have a lot of time to talk, tonight’s been hectic. Sherlock’s here, drunk and high off his tits. Normally I would just stick him in a cell and let him sober up overnight, but I don’t have the space, time or patience to do that tonight. He kept telling me to call you. Any chance you could come pick him up?”  
John tried to swallow past the cotton feel of his tongue. “Wait, Sherlock’s high? I thought he was sober…”  
“Yeah, well he’s relapsed again. Can you come get him or not?”  
“Yeah, yeah.” John ran his hand over his face. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”  
Tugging on his pants and shoes, he stumbled his way to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face to wake himself up before driving.  
Forty minutes later, he pulled up to Scotland Yard, locked his car and strode inside.

“John!” He heard Sherlock’s chirpy voice before he saw him. He approached the cell bars slowly, taking in the sight before him.  
Sherlock looked punk as ever, wearing the same torn, ratty black jeans he had been when they first met. His combat boots were laced up to his bony knees; his curly hair was wet and unkempt, the eyeliner around his eyes and the blue lipstick he wore smudged with wear. The mesh undershirt had also returned, layered underneath the patch- and pin-covered denim jacket he always wore. There were cuts lining his rib cage, sticking out like sore thumbs from beneath the mesh, looking fresh. There was a gash on his face, his lip busted open, his left eye black and slightly swollen. His pupils were dilated beyond any natural occurrence.  
“Sherlock, what in the hell happened to you?”  
“Got into a fistfight,” Sherlock slurred, pulling himself to his feet. He stumbled drunkenly to the other side of the bars, smirking at John, only this time the smirk made him look deranged and sad.  
“What in God’s name have you taken?”  
“Do you want the list?” Sherlock’s nimble fingers slipped to the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to John. “There’s always a list.”  
With a sigh, John unfolded the piece of paper, to find a list in Sherlock’s messy chicken scratch of a handwriting.  
“Cocaine, Costwald’s whisky, heroin, speedballs, morphine, vodka, ecstasy, marijuana.” He read off, then looked up at Sherlock. “Jesus, you’ve taken all of this?”  
“Over the last twenty four hours, not all at once.” Sherlock scoffed. “Mostly cocaine and whisky, though.” He swayed on the spot, falling into a fit of giggles.  
“Yeah, we busted him before he could get any more heroin,” Lestrade said, walking up to beside John with the cell key in his hand. “Lucky we did, or else he’d probably be dead right now.”  
“Recreational drug use in no way is certain to lead to death, Greg.” Sherlock shook his finger at Lestrade, eyes wide.  
“Even if that were true, and even if you were a recreational user and not an addict, the man you were propositioning for drugs probably would have continued beating you until you suffered brain injury serious enough to kill you, Sherlock.” Lestrade said patiently, opening the cell door and pulling Sherlock out by the wrist. “And then instead of being here with me, you’d be in a morgue and I’d be investigating a hate crime.”  
“Sure, sure,” Sherlock muttered distractedly, his eyes darting all over the room with paranoia.  
“Come on,” John took his hand and led him gently out of the Yard. “We’re gonna take you home, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock smirked at him. “Taking me to bed, Watson?”  
“No, apparently you only sleep with people for drugs.” John muttered, missing the flicker of hurt that crossed Sherlock’s face as they got into his car.  
“That’s not true.”  
“So when Lestrade said you were propositioning someone for drugs, he definitely did not mean that you were offering someone sex in exchange for dope?”  
Sherlock stared out of his window quietly. John shook his head and started the car. They drove to Baker Street in silence.  
“Come on,” John said, pulling into a parking spot on the street outside of 221B. He got out and opened Sherlock’s door for him, letting the gangly twenty-year-old lean on him as they made their way into the flat. Managing to get up the stairs, John deposited Sherlock’s lanky figure onto the bed, noting that it looked barely-used. He made sure Sherlock was in the recovery position - on his side, legs crossed, mouth unobstructed - and made to leave.  
“Don’t go,” came Sherlock’s voice softly from the bed. John turned to see Sherlock staring at him, eyes half-lidded. “Please stay.”  
John sighed, then kicked off his shoes and crawled onto the bed. He positioned himself beside Sherlock - essentially the big spoon - and wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s skinny middle.  
“Love you,” Sherlock said sleepily, before his breathing evened into soft snores. With a sigh, John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and let himself fall asleep.

He woke up alone, to a small note on Sherlock’s bedside table.  
_Sorry about last night, thanks for staying. There aren’t many groceries, but you’re free to help yourself to whatever. Mind the eyeballs in the fridge - it’s an experiment. - SH _  
John left the bed, making his way downstairs to the main floor of the flat. The living room was modest - a writing desk, a soft-looking burgundy chair, and a fireplace surrounded on either side by two full bookcases. Above the mantel was a cow’s skull with earphones, and below that was a pile of mail stuck to the mantelpiece with a large knife. On the table beside the burgundy chair lay an open violin case and a handsome mahogany violin, complete with bow and rosin. On the floor lay several chemistry textbooks and cold case files.  
John ambled into the kitchen. The kitchen table was covered in various beakers and science equipment, looking both dangerous and disgusting. John rifled through the cabinets - Sherlock was right, there were very little edible items, but soon enough John found both tea and the kettle. He put the kettle on, then continued snooping.  
The fridge was empty except for the eyeballs Sherlock mentioned, a shit ton of liquor and beer, and a bushel of rotting asparagus. Closing the fridge and deciding he was done with the kitchen, John made his way out of the kitchen and down the main hall. He stopped at the bathroom, or rather, what appeared to be Sherlock’s drug room.  
On the side of the tub - which was abnormally wide - was a cloth, a spoon, a lighter, and a bundle of needles. On the counter was a razor blade and a large piece of glass, dusted with a powder residue. Several pill bottles lined the back of the counter and the back of the toilet and window sill, most of them filled with pills, some of them stuffed with powder-filled baggies. Beer and whiskey bottles littered the floor. A bong stood next to the tub.  
“Jesus,” John muttered, backing out of the room slowly. He closed the door behind him and continued his way down the hall, finding nothing else of interest besides a library-like room full of books and a box labeled ‘pre-transition’. Against his better judgement, John opened it, only to find several thick photo albums. They were all filled with pictures of a little girl at various ages in various dresses. One was of a young Sherlock, probably aged fourteen, with long hair and a toothy smile, next to a tall man in a three piece pinstripe suit with an umbrella, looking grave. Feeling goosebumps rise on his skin, John put the photo album back where he had found it and exited the room.  
“Sherlock?” He heard the front door open and quickly made his way back down the hall and into the living room. The voice was Lestrade, looking surprised to see John.  
“Is Sherlock here?”  
John shook his head. “He was gone when I woke up.”  
“Oh, so you...stayed the night.”  
Realizing the implication, John turned a bright red. “Not like that. Just to keep an eye on him and make sure he was alright.”  
“Sure,” Lestrade nodded, smirking. “Either way, he wouldn’t let just anyone be alone in his flat. Sorry you had to see him like that last night. I guess he must’ve fallen off the wagon. One of my officers was out on patrol last night when she saw him, hollering drunkenly outside of his brother’s house. She told him to go home, but saw him a little later with an older man getting the shit beat out of him. Brought him into the Yard.”  
John nodded slowly, not sure what to say.  
“You’re the first person he’s ever shown interest in,” Lestrade was saying. “He’s actually pretty closed off, believe it or not. Took me years to get him to trust me enough to take him in. And Mycroft? Sherlock hates him with every bone in his body.”  
“‘Cuz of the whole trans thing, right.” John muttered. Lestrade gave him an inquisitive look.  
“Sherlock being trans? Mycroft was fine with that. No, it’s because of their father.”  
John furrowed his brow. “Their father?”  
“Sexually molested Sherlock when he was little,” Lestrade said matter-of-factly. “Mycroft didn’t do anything about it until Sherlock was older, because he didn’t know, but Sherlock’s convinced it was because Mycroft didn’t want to tarnish the family reputation.”  
“Wow,” John muttered. “So the drugs and everything..?”  
“Partly because of the trans thing, yeah.” Lestrade took a sip of his iced coffee. “Mostly because he’s self-medicating his PTSD. Anyway, they never convicted his dad of it. Got him on a shitload of mob-related charges, so he’s in prison for life, but Sherlock’s still pretty fucked up about it.”  
“Should you be telling me all this?” John asked, feeling sick to his stomach. The kettle was going off, but he ignored it.  
“Like I said, he’s never liked anyone, John. And certainly not like he likes you. As I told you before, he wouldn’t leave just anyone alone in his flat, with all his secrets.”  
John thought about telling Lestrade about the drug room. He bit his tongue, deciding against it.  
“Well, it was nice to see you John. Tell Sherlock I’m looking for him next time you see him?” Lestrade made his way towards the door.  
“Yeah,” John said distractedly, his mind elsewhere as he watched Lestrade leave. He went to the kitchen and made himself some tea.


	6. My Wonderful Shirly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people in Sherlock's life confront him about his relapse.

John continued snooping with his tea in hand, crossing first and foremost to the letters on the mantelpiece. Pulling them from underneath the ridiculously large knife, he began to rifle through them. Most of them were from Mycroft, one was from a gynecologist, and the one on the very bottom was to Sherlock, from one William Holmes. Curious, he pulled the papers from the envelope and unfolded them.

_My wonderful Shirly,_

_As you may or may not know, I am supposed to be released from prison soon. I am incredibly happy to join you and your brother in London after my sentence is commuted. I have missed you, and I know you’ve missed me too._

_Love,_

_Your Father_

The letter was dated three days before Friday. Hands shaking, John stuffed the papers back into their envelope and put everything back the way it was. Picking up his mug of tea again, he began to browse the bookshelves, stopping when he saw an entire shelf dedicated to what looked like Sherlock’s journals. He paused, considering, then shook his head as guilt overwhelmed him. There were just certain boundaries he felt he shouldn’t cross, and looking through Sherlock’s journals was one of them. Picking up an Arthur Conan Doyle book instead, he curled up in Sherlock’s chair with his mug and began reading.

He heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the flat a few hours later, turning to look as Sherlock strode in. The tall brunette peeled off his jacket and threw his keys onto the table as he entered, sighing, jumping a little when he saw John in his chair.  
“I didn’t expect you to still be here.”  
“I wanted to talk about last night.”  
“Oh.” Sherlock sighed again.  
“And Lestrade came by looking for you. I told him you weren’t here. Where have you been?” John’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t drive to work, so you weren’t there.”  
“I was visiting Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered, and John noticed his hand was shaking. He began his way towards the bathroom. “I need a minute.”  
John bolted from his seat, arriving to the bathroom after Sherlock just in time to keep the door from closing. “I get to watch.”  
“What?” Sherlock had plopped onto the floor next to the bathtub.  
“If you’re getting high,” John closed the door behind him and mirrored Sherlock’s position on the ground, his back against the door. “I get to watch, and make sure you do it as safely as possible.”  
“Fine,” Sherlock muttered, pulling a baggie from his jean pocket and pouring it into the spoon. Picking it up, he leaned back against the wall and lit his lighter, holding it with ease underneath the spoon’s curve. He was avoiding John’s gaze.  
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
“About what?”  
“About you relapsing.”  
“Do we have to?” Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes.  
“Sherlock - “  
“Lestrade told you, didn’t he?” Sherlock muttered, grinding his teeth as he watched the heroin melt.  
“Yeah,” John said quietly. “I know why you didn’t tell me, Sherlock, but drugs aren’t the answer.”  
“He’s getting released soon,” Sherlock’s voice was quiet as he pulled the smack into the syringe, tying the torniquete around his skinny arm. “He’s got connections, people he can pay off to get out of prison.” Finding a good vein - and John wondered how, with all the track marks littering the inside of Sherlock’s arm - he slid the needle in with practiced ease and leaned his head back as he injected it, pupils going wide with euphoria.  
“Have you ever thought about coming forward?” John said softly, watching him. “I’m sure Mycroft could make him disappear.”  
“Mycroft’s useless,” Sherlock spat, his face contorting into immediate rage. “He’s nothing but a selfish liar.”  
“Sherlock, calm down.”  
Sherlock slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. After a few moments of silence, he pulled himself to his feet, moving past John and tugging at the door.  
“Where are you going?”  
“To get a beer,” Sherlock mumbled, pushing John out of the way with his foot and slipping through the door. John sighed and followed him, watching Sherlock pull open the fridge door and take a beer out.  
“Want one?”  
“No thanks,” John said flatly, watching Sherlock crack open the bottle and chug half of it as they stood there. Sherlock shrugged and sauntered to his chair, where he curled up like a graceful cat and nursed his beer.  
“This isn’t healthy, Sherlock.” John sighed, leaning against the kitchen doorway and watching him. “This isn’t the Sherlock I met a month ago.”  
“Just because I’m being vulnerable and no longer hiding behind a ‘cool kid’ exterior?” Sherlock muttered into his beer, not looking up. “Sorry to disappoint you, John.”  
John opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the flat’s door opening. Lestrade strode in, followed by a man in an expensive three-piece suit carrying an umbrella. The man from the photo. _Mycroft._  
Sherlock sat up immediately, chugging the rest of his beer. Mycroft scowled.  
“Put that alcohol down this instant, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock tossed the now-empty bottle onto the couch with a sneer. “What are you doing here?”  
“Lestrade’s told me you relapsed.”  
Sherlock gaped at Lestrade. “Really? You had to go my _dear brother_ Mycroft?”  
“You’re getting out of control again, Sherlock.” Lestrade chided.  
“Recreational use is in no way the same thing as getting out of control.” Sherlock muttered, pulling a blanket off of the floor and covering himself with it, pulling the hem to his chin. John snorted. Both Lestrade and Mycroft turned to him.  
“Sorry,” John shook his head. “Recreational use? You should see his bathroom.”  
“John!” Sherlock hissed, but it was too late. Lestrade was already on his way to the bathroom.  
“Good lord,” he swore loudly. “There’s enough drugs in here to kill you three times over, Sherlock, not to mention give you a life sentence if I were to arrest you.”  
Mycroft approached Sherlock slowly. The younger brother recoiled, hissing like a threatened cat.  
“Do I need to send you back to rehab, brother mine?” Mycroft inquired quietly. For the first time, John could see the fear and pain in Sherlock’s bright blue eyes.  
“I don’t want him to come home.” Sherlock replied, so soft it was barely audible. “Every time I think about it, I want to do more drugs.”  
“I’ll make sure he stays incarcerated, Sherlock.” Mycroft said quietly, looking Sherlock in the eyes. “I’ll even make sure he’s dead, if I have to, but you have to get clean. There’s only so much your body can take before it gives out.”  
Sherlock sniffled loudly. John looked away, feeling as though he were intruding on a very special moment that he shouldn’t be.  
“First thing’s first,” Lestrade reemerged from the bathroom, putting his phone into his pocket. “I just called the drug squad to come confiscate all of this. That’s the first step.”  
“The alcohol in the fridge, too.” Sherlock murmured from his spot in his chair, and John realized that Sherlock was crying. “Take it all.” He sounded exhausted.  
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to rehab?” Mycroft asked, leaning a little on his umbrella. “You know I could have it taken care of, Sherlock.”  
“I’d rather detox in my own home,” Sherlock murmured, looking at John. “I don’t want to be that far away from John.”  
John blushed, looking abashedly down at his feet.  
“Yes, John.” Mycroft straightened and turned towards the aforementioned. Crossing the room to where John stood, he stuck out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”  
John took his hand. They shook once.  
“He seems quite smitten with you, John.” Mycroft said, low enough that Sherlock couldn’t hear. His eyes were the same color blue, only like ice, with no warmth. “If you hurt him, there will be consequences. Understood?”  
“Yes sir,” John said quietly. “Although I think it’s fair to say I’m quite smitten with him too.”  
“Watch it.” Mycroft muttered, before turning on his heel and going back to his brother. “Are you alright for the moment, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock nodded, sniffling into his blanket, eyes bloodshot and pupils dilated. Lestrade wandered over, running his hand through Sherlock’s curls once before sitting down on the couch. Mycroft joined him, seeming to take careful consideration of the distance between them. They waited in silence until the drug squad arrived. Sherlock stood, almost losing balance, before shuffling his way over to John and burying his still very wet face in John’s neck. John rubbed his back, watching as the team of people took everything away.  
“So,” Lestrade stood once the team was finished, Mycroft quickly following suit. “We’ll be back to check in tomorrow. John, would you mind staying with him for the night?”  
“I don’t need a babysitter,” came Sherlock’s bored, now only half-high reply.  
“I’ll go, then.” John stated. Sherlock let out a small, panicked whine.  
“Thought so.” A smirk found its way to John’s face, settling there triumphantly. “Yeah, I’ll stay. Do you want take-out, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock hummed from his place in the kitchen, where he was making tea.  
Lestrade nodded. “Alright, see you guys tomorrow.” He and Mycroft left. Sherlock immediately crossed the two rooms to the window, watching them get into the same car.  
“Knew it,” he murmured, clutching his mug of tea. “They’re dating.”  
“Really?”  
“Mycroft never rides in a car with anyone if he can help it.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.  
“Come sit with me,” John murmured softly. Sherlock did as he was told, curling up on the couch next to John, their knees touching. John ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls.  
“My withdrawals are going to start in a few hours,” Sherlock murmured.  
“We’ll worry about that after dinner,” John replied. They waited for their food to arrive. When it did, they ate in comfortable silence.


	7. I Can Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, Sherlock and John have intimate relations for the first time. Featuring John being a good boyfriend : >

The withdrawals didn’t really start until they were both in bed. John was asleep, practically fused to the mattress, when he was woken up by a hard thrashing next to him. Jerking awake, he saw with a panic that the thrashing was Sherlock, who’s eyes had rolled to the back of his head and who’s body was rigid; forcing himself into doctor mode, John pushed Sherlock onto his side and shoved a pillow underneath Sherlock’s head, fumbling for his phone’s timer. Anything over five minutes -   
But Sherlock’s seizing stopped in three, his body relaxing against the mattress. John held him close, and a few more minutes passed until Sherlock spoke.  
“Seized, didn’t I?” He murmured blearily against John’s chest.  
“Yea,” John replied softly. “Maybe we should take you to hospital.”  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock said weakly, trying to sit up.  
“Easy,” John said quickly, helping Sherlock sit his back up against the headboard. Sherlock waved him off with an impatient growl.  
“I can do it, John.”  
“Alright,” John rolled his eyes when Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. “Would you like some tea?”  
A beat of silence passed. “Yes, please.” Sherlock sounded completely exhausted.  
“Stay here,” John ordered sternly, standing and leaving the room for the kitchen. Sherlock got to his feet with a groan and followed anyway, shuffling slowly down the stairs.  
“Sherlock!” John chided from the kitchen, watching Sherlock’s lithe figure collapse onto the couch. “I told you to stay in bed.”  
“I was bored in bed,” Sherlock murmured, eyes cast to the ceiling. “Unless you want to return to the bedroom and make it more interesting?” He smirked at John.  
“Hush, you.” John muttered, cheeks going rosy as he brought two mugs of tea into the living room. “Before I do put that mouth to better use.”  
Sherlock nearly choked on his tea, his entire face and even the tips of his ears going red. He spluttered.  
“Caught you off guard, did I?” It was John’s turn to smirk, proud of himself.  
“Shut up,” Sherlock told his tea, his eyes determinedly looking anywhere but John’s direction.  
“All bark and no bite, are you?” John hummed, trying to keep it cool despite his growing arousal.  
“I can bite,” Sherlock growled, casting his eyes towards John at last. “Make no mistake in that regard, John.”  
John shivered at the huskiness in Sherlock’s voice, licking his lips subconsciously. Sherlock’s smirk had returned, his lip ring glinting in the light pouring in from the kitchen. John leaned back, trying to hide his hard-on. Sherlock sat his tea down on the coffee table and sauntered towards John, straddling him with ease. John leaned back even more and gasped slightly at the friction, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock grinded down slowly, a smirk playing on his lips as he kissed John’s neck.  
“Bite as I may, I am much better at sucking.”  
“Fuck,” John muttered, his hips rolling upwards to meet Sherlock’s. He was positively panting now. “Sherlock, we shouldn’t be - “  
Sherlock shut him up with a hot and heavy kiss, his fingers threading through John’s hair. After a moment he detached himself and stood - John let out a whine at the loss despite himself, eyes going wide as Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John’s chair.  
“Sherlock - “ the younger boy’s fingers were already at John’s fly, undoing it expertly as Sherlock planted a trail of kisses up John’s knee. “Sherlock, you don’t have to - “  
Sherlock took John into his mouth and John groaned, head falling back, eyelids fluttering. He tangled his hand in Sherlock’s brunette curls as Sherlock’s head bobbed, his tongue flicking around the head. John risked a glance downward and moaned again at the sight, Sherlock’s mouth full of his cock, piercing blue eyes wide, both hands on either of John’s knees as his head bobbed faster. John wasn’t going to last long, and Sherlock seemed to know this, his face smug as he deepthroated. John couldn’t help but buck into it, tugging at Sherlock’s hair, his moans escalating.  
“Sherlock, I’m going to - “  
He expected Sherlock to pull away, moaning the latter’s name loudly when Sherlock swallowed instead. He slumped back into his seat, spent, panting for breath. Sherlock tucked John back into his jeans and stood again, looking smug and satisfied as he turned towards the couch.  
“Wait - “ John murmured weakly, watching him. “I can repay you.”  
Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. “That’s not necessary, John.” He was heaving, out of breath as well, although his sounded a lot more laboured. John’s eyebrows knit together as he watched Sherlock sit on the couch, trying to catch his breath.  
“Are you alright?”  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock replied, dismissing John’s concern with a wave of his hand. John watched him for a moment, realization dawning on him.  
“Did you sleep in your binder?”  
Sherlock glanced at him, a look of surprise on his face. He didn’t reply.  
“How long have you been wearing it, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock sucked in a ragged breath. “A few days now.”  
“Jesus,” John muttered, standing and taking a seat next to Sherlock on the couch. He grabbed the hem of Sherlock’s shirt and made a tugging motion. “C’mon, you have to take it off.”  
Sherlock shimmied away, almost flinching at the touch. John paused.  
“I have a shirt, upstairs.” Sherlock murmured, not meeting John’s gaze. He stood hurriedly and made his way towards the stairs. John followed.  
Sherlock entered his bedroom and tugged his shirt off over his head slowly. John fought back a gasp; Sherlock’s entire rib area, visible beneath the binder, was bruised. Sherlock turned to look at him, apprehensive.  
“Would you mind, erm,” he cleared his throat, sounding embarrassed. “Would you mind...turning around?”  
John blinked. “Oh. Of...of course not.”  
He did as he was told, turning to face the hallway so his back was to Sherlock. He heard the other man shuffling around, shimmying out of the binder and rummaging through the wardrobe for another shirt. A minute or so passed.  
“You can look now,” Sherlock said softly. John turned again; Sherlock had changed into a pair of sweatpants and an Oxford hoodie that draped his skinny frame, swallowing him so that none of his torso was distinguishable. He looked shy.  
“Thanks,” John murmured, his eyes roving over Sherlock. “For...you know.”  
“You don’t have to thank me, John.” Sherlock replied, moving past John and making his way back downstairs.  
“Well, can I at least return the favor?” John followed, watching Sherlock plop down onto the couch again and pick up his mug.  
“That’s not necessary, John.” Sherlock murmured.  
“Sherlock...do you... not want me to?”  
They stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock took a deep, laboured breath.  
“I am...scared, that once you...engage in intimacy with me, you will no longer see me as a man.” Sherlock said quietly to his mug of tea. “Not to mention, I have never...received, before. I’m afraid I’m going to be bad at it.”  
John’s expression softened as he watched Sherlock drink his tea silently. “I will never see you as anything other than the man you are, Sherlock. Ever.” He sat beside Sherlock, taking his free hand and twining their fingers. “And there’s no such thing as being bad at receiving.”  
“I just...I’m not sure I’m ready, John. If that’s okay.”  
“That’s perfectly fine,” John murmured softly, planting a gentle kiss below Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock leaned on him, pushing them both into a lying position on the old couch. They were both asleep in minutes.


	8. Shenanigans at Speedy's

“It was going to happen eventually,” Lestrade murmured to the man standing next to him.  
Mycroft sighed, his eyes trained on the sleeping teenagers in front of him. He looked grim.  
“I’m just not sure it’s the best timing,” he sighed to Lestrade. “With our father and all.”  
“I thought that was taken care of?”  
“I’ve got eyes on him at all times.” Mycroft assured him, smiling wryly at his partner. “But sooner or later he’s going to try and get in contact with Sherlock, and I’m afraid once he does, it will send Sherlock on another bender.”  
“You don’t know that for sure,” Lestrade murmured. “Maybe your father wants to make amends.”  
“He wants nothing more than to hurt Sherlock.” Mycroft replied. “And he’s got numerous ways of doing so.”  
“Maybe it’s best to take care of the problem before it arises.”  
Mycroft trained his eyes on Lestrade evenly. “Are you suggesting murder, Detective Inspector?”  
They were interrupted by a stirring on the couch before Lestrade could reply. Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily, scowling at the two men standing in front of him. John was still fast asleep.  
“What’re you guys doing here?” He muttered, standing carefully and making his way into the kitchen. “And would you like some tea?”  
Mycroft blinked, surprised by the sudden politeness of his usually surly little brother. “Sure, thanks.”  
Sherlock hummed quietly in response, setting the kettle on the stove, a small smile playing on his lips. Mycroft and Lestrade glanced at each other, eyebrows arched.  
“How were the withdrawals, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, hands in his coat pockets as he joined Sherlock in the kitchen.  
“They were alright,” Sherlock murmured, glancing almost wistfully at John’s sleeping figure on the couch. “Could have been worse.”  
Lestrade noted his gaze. “John make everything a bit better?”  
“A bit, yeah.” Sherlock smiled softly and poured their mugs, handing one to Lestrade before taking his and Mycroft’s into the living room. He handed the mug carefully to his brother. A moment passed between them.  
“Going back to work any time soon?” Mycroft asked quietly, his tone soft, forgiving.  
“Maybe tomorrow,” Sherlock replied, taking a sip from his mug. “Or in a few days. I’ll talk to Tony in the morning.”  
“Alright,” Mycroft nodded. “Just be careful, Sherlock. Don’t move too fast.”  
They met each other’s gazes. Sherlock sighed.  
“It’s different this time.”  
“I hope it is,” Mycroft replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve never seen you fall this hard.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shut up, you fucker.” He took a long drink from his mug. “I could say the same about you.” He shifted his eyes discreetly towards Lestrade, who was scrolling on his phone in the kitchen. Mycroft scowled.  
“How dare you insinuate that Detective Inspector Lestrade and I’s relationship extends anything beyond professional?”  
“You’re not the only one who can make deductions, Mycroft.” Sherlock smirked.  
“And as such deductions are being made, might I point out how glaringly obvious it is that you and John have had sexual relations since the last time Lestrade and I were here?” Mycroft shot back, leaning against his umbrella.  
Sherlock’s smirk faded immediately as his cheeks grew rosy. “Shut up,” he muttered, scuffing his toes embarrassedly against the hardwood floors. Mycroft allowed himself to smirk as he drank the rest of his tea.  
“Well, anyhow, I’m glad you’re doing better, Sherlock. This situation with our father is taken care of, and I just want you to focus on getting and staying on the right track.”  
“Alright.” Sherlock murmured, cradling his mug in his hands as Lestrade joined them in the living room. He clapped Sherlock on the back.  
"I'll see you around, yeah?"  
"Yeah," Sherlock nodded, watching them both walk towards the door of the flat. “I’ll see you guys later.”  
They waved to him as they departed, closing the door behind them. Sherlock curled up on the couch next to John’s sleeping figure. He watched the older man for a moment, then turned his attention to the telly and turned it on.

When John awoke in bed the next morning - weird, he didn’t remember leaving the sofa - it was once again alone and to another note on the bedside table.  
My dearest John - Gone to work. You can meet me for lunch around two pm if you’d like. If not, I’ll be home around eight. Miss you always, SH.  
John sat up slowly, picking his mobile off up off of the table and checking the time. It was just now noon. He stood and stretched, running his hand through his hair before trotting to the bathroom to wash his face. He would have to go back to his own place soon, just for a shower and some new clothes if anything.  
Stepping into the bathroom, he flipped the light on and turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face. Patting it dry with a hand towel, he made his way into the living room and searched for his shoes.  
The drive back to his place wasn’t a long one. Fitting the key into the lock, he let himself into the flat and shivered. It seemed so foreign compared to Baker Street now, even though he had only been gone a few days. Shaking the feeling off, he made his way into the bedroom. He had just enough time to shower and get cleaned up before meeting Sherlock for lunch.  
John stepped out of the shower a little while later and got dressed quickly, excited to meet his boyfriend for lunch. He grabbed his keys off his dresser and practically skipped into the kitchen, thumbing through his unopened mail before he left. He stopped when he saw the letter from his landlord.  
“Shit,” he muttered, tearing it open and scanning it. He hadn’t known he was that behind on rent.  
Stuffing the letter back into its envelope, he threw the notice back onto the table and strode out of the flat, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary.

“Is Sherlock almost done yet?” John asked the girl at the counter of the tattoo parlor, wasting no time with niceties.  
“Just about.” She responded. John crossed his arms and waited. Sherlock appeared a few moments later, wearing black torn skinny jeans and the same sleeveless tee he wore the first time John met him. His arm was decorated with a brand new, bandaged tattoo.  
“Hey love,” he murmured, kissing John on the cheek. John fought not to blush. “Ready for lunch?”  
“I was thinking Speedy’s,” John replied as they left the shop together. Sherlock nodded in agreement and lit a cigarette.  
“You okay?” He asked, glancing at John. John swallowed, his palms sweating with anxiety.  
“I actually had a question.”  
“Okay.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him.  
“Um, well, I know it’s really early in our relationship,” John muttered, staring at his feet again. “But, um, well, I’ve been behind on rent for a few months, and I got an eviction notice from my landlord today, and - “  
“Of course you can stay at Baker Street,” Sherlock said automatically, exhaling smoke through his nose. “You should have said something earlier, John.”  
“I didn’t want to make it weird. We only just met not even a month ago and - “  
“It’s not about us being together, John.” Sherlock explained, smirking slightly. “Even if we weren’t together, I’d let you stay at the flat. It’s too big for one person anyway. Now, would you like me to go there with you tonight and help you pack?” They came to a halt outside of Speedy’s; Sherlock lingered on the curb to finish his cigarette.  
John blinked. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”  
They stepped into the deli, taking a seat at the booth near the window. John got a sandwich with crisps; Sherlock got only coffee.  
“How’s work been so far?” John asked, then gestured to the bandage on Sherlock’s arm. “I see you’ve gotten a new tattoo.” Sherlock’s arms were already covered in tattoos, anyway, and John wondered how he even found room for a new one.  
“Yeah,” Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, exhaling steam. “Just a little zombie, nothing major. Aside from that, it’s been a pretty easy day. Lots of sorority girls from America.” Sherlock was silent for a moment. “You should get a tattoo.”  
John nearly choked on his coffee. “What?”  
“A tattoo,” Sherlock repeated slowly. “You should get one.”  
“I can’t,” John shook his head adamantly. “I’d faint, on the spot. As soon as the needle touched me I’d be out.”  
“I don’t believe you’re that much of a wuss, John.” Sherlock smirked, a teasing note in his voice, and John couldn’t help but blush.  
“Well, wuss or not, that’s what would happen.” He felt Sherlock’s foot rub against the inside of his leg. He took a drink of his coffee to hide his ever-reddening cheeks, heat creeping up the back of his neck as Sherlock’s foot crept up further and further.  
“Erm, Sherlock,” John managed, trying and failing to keep his breath from hitching. “What’re you doing?”  
“Drinking coffee,” Sherlock said innocently, his foot finally finding the treasure it was so desperately seeking. John bit back a soft gasp, hardening almost immediately under the pressure of Sherlock’s boot. Sherlock was smirking ever so slightly, his boot maneuvering gently and expertly. John squeezed his eyes shut.  
“Sherlock - “ He bit back a moan as Sherlock increased the pressure. “ _Sherlock._ ”  
“John?” Sherlock murmured, a mischievous glint in his eye, his foot stroking John through his trousers. John gasped, drawing closer and closer to the edge until - yes, warmth flooded the inside of his trousers, his hands shaking as his eyelids fluttered. Sherlock withdrew his foot with a wide smirk, taking a drink from his coffee.  
“You naughty bastard,” John managed, his sandwich now cold.  
“I am,” Sherlock conceded, finishing off his coffee and standing. “I must be getting back. Would you like to walk with me? If you can stand?”  
“I can stand,” John assured him, still blushing. He got to his feet slowly, peeling off his jacket and tying it around his waist to hide the stain. Sherlock smirked at this, his eyes roving over John as he licked his lips.  
“Someone made a mess of himself.”  
John scowled. “You’re the one who made me.”  
Sherlock lit a cigarette the second they stepped onto the pavement. “Yes, I am. Quite proud of it, too.”  
“Prick,” John murmured with a grin as they made their way back to the tattoo parlor.  
“You are what you suck,” Sherlock replied in a low voice, taking a draw off his cigarette. John reached out and grabbed his other hand. Sherlock glanced at him in surprise.  
“Is this okay?” John asked, surprised but pleased to see that it was Sherlock blushing for goddamn once.  
“Yes, it is.” Sherlock murmured, his gaze soft. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock smoking his cigarette and John watching his feet as he thought. After a moment, they came upon the tattoo parlor. John let go of his hand.  
“I’ll see you later at your place, yeah?” Sherlock murmured, and John nodded. Sherlock swooped down and planted a kiss on John’s cheek, catching him completely off guard. He disappeared into the parlor without another word, leaving John standing there with a grin on his face. Taking a few moments to gather himself, John made his way back to his car.


	9. It's Official

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just to let u know i don't edit any of these before i upload them lmao hope you enjoy anyway

“This is it,” John murmured, a few hours later as he let Sherlock into his flat. “It’s a lot smaller than Baker Street, mind you.”  
“It’s a lovely place, John.” Sherlock said softly. “Fits your personality and aesthetic very well. Reminds me of your jumpers.”  
John managed to contain his smile only slightly. “Everything’s mostly packed except for the desk and the bedside table.”  
Sherlock grabbed an empty box and wandered over to the desk as John finished up the box he was working on. He heard Sherlock open a drawer, and then there was a very tense pause.  
“John,” Sherlock said quietly. John turned to find him holding a black pistol in the air.  
“Why on earth,” Sherlock’s voice was almost dangerously quiet, “Do you own a pistol, and why is it loaded?”  
“Oh,” John looked away, training his eyes anywhere but Sherlock’s. “Erm. For, you know. Just in case.”  
“Just in case?” Sherlock looked momentarily confused, until a flicker of understanding softened his gaze. “John.”  
He was across the room in seconds, his free hand cupping John’s cheek. “You tell me, when you have those thoughts from now on. Okay, John?”  
John nodded slowly.  
“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Sherlock insisted, leaning down and kissing John softly. “Promise me.”  
“I promise, Sherlock.”  
“Good.” Sherlock tucked the pistol into his waistband, then returned to the desk to finish packing. John decided not to say anything about the cuts on Sherlock’s wrists.

It didn’t take long between the two of them to carry all of John’s things into the Baker Street flat. In truth, John didn’t really own much; not that he minded, he didn’t need much.  
“The extra room upstairs,” Sherlock murmured as he sat the last box down in their bedroom. “You can use as an office for when you do homework and whatnot.”  
“Are you sure you don’t mind sharing your bedroom?” John asked for the upteenth time, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply.  
“For the thousandth time John, I am happy to share my room and the bed it contains with my boyfriend.”  
John blushed, his heart fluttering. “Still.”  
“‘Still’ nothing.” Sherlock kissed him deeply, pressing him up against the wall. “I want you here, John.”  
John’s breath hitched as he melted into another kiss. “Mmph, Sherlock, don’t start.”  
“Start what?” Sherlock hummed, his lips moving to John’s neck. John tilted his head back with a soft moan.  
“Being naughty.”  
“I’m not being naughty,” Sherlock replied, and palmed John as if that would prove his point. John gasped, biting his lip.  
“After what you pulled at lunch today - “  
“I thought you liked it?” John could feel Sherlock smirking against his neck, his hand pressing against the parting of John’s legs firmly. John’s eyelids fluttered.  
“I - I did but - i-in public? Really?” John managed, trying to not let all of his focus be pulled to Sherlock’s hand massaging his cock through his jeans. Sherlock bit down on the skin just below John’s ear, making him moan once more.  
“Sherlock - “  
Sherlock pulled back, his eyes glinting slightly. John gaped at him in wonderment as Sherlock took his hand, guiding him over to the bed and pushing him down onto it. He stripped in front of John slowly, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping his jeans with swift hands. He straddled John slowly, smirking as John gasped.  
“Lube?” John mumbled into Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock nodded, reaching behind him into his bedside drawer and pulling out a bottle. He squirted a liberal amount into his hand and prepped them both before lowering himself onto John, eyelids fluttering.  
“John,” he moaned, wrapping his arms around John’s neck. “John, _god._ ”  
“You’re beautiful,” John murmured, his hips moving slow and methodical. Sherlock’s pale skin glinted in the light, sweat running down his neck. John’s tongue darted out and grabbed it, running itself up the column of ivory and nibbling on Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock’s hitched as he moaned, rocking, his hands threading through John’s hair.  
“Fuck,” he moaned, clenching. “Fuck, you’re big.”  
“Shut up,” John murmured with a grin, his hand moving between them and swiping across the tip of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock gasped in surprise, his hips bucking instinctively, the hand in John’s hair tugging hard. John smirked and did it again, noting the way Sherlock’s stomach sucked in and his breath quivered. “Like that?”  
“John,” Sherlock whimpered, and the desperation in his voice made John shiver as their rhythms matched. “John, I’m - “  
“Mm, I think you should earn it.” John murmured, pulling his hand away and relishing in the way Sherlock whined. “After what you did in the diner today.”  
Sherlock’s eyes widened, his breath quickening in anticipation, his fingers shaking as they threaded again through John’s hair.  
“I want to hear you beg for it, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock whimpered, nodding, his pace on John’s cock quickening. John had to fight himself to not be too rough, his hand rubbing Sherlock’s cock in slow, tantalizing circles. He could see the way it pulsated through the taller, younger man; the way Sherlock’s eyes fluttered, his mouth moving as he babbled silently, rocking closer and closer to the edge -  
“John, please.” He begged, his face buried in John’s neck. “Please, _please._ ”  
“Please what, love?” John’s hand quickened, Sherlock’s whimpers pitching higher and higher as John increased the pressure.  
“Please let me come!” Sherlock managed, his face red from trying not to let himself over the edge.  
“Come for me, Sherlock.” John murmured into his ear, his hand moving furiously. Sherlock whimpered and gasped, quaking and crying out as he spilled over the edge; John followed him, releasing hard and fast into Sherlock as they both fell into satiated bliss. After a few moments, Sherlock disentangled himself, falling onto his back in the bed beside John. They laid there for a few moments as the world drifted back into focus.  
“What was that for?” John said after a little while. Sherlock lit a cigarette.  
“To celebrate you moving in,” he grinned, taking a long draw. “To make it official.”  
They lapsed back into comfortable silence, staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock finished his cigarette and reached over John for the ashtray, stubbing it out before curling up with his head on John’s chest.  
“I love you,” John murmured, half-asleep. Sherlock nuzzled closer, soft heat creeping up his cheeks.  
“I love you too.”

\- A few weeks later -

Sherlock entered Baker Street and closed the door behind him, peeling off his jacket and throwing his keys onto the floor by the door.  
“Where have you been?” John said from the couch. “You’ve been gone all day.”  
“Seeing Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, kicking off his boots.  
“Really?” John replied, turning to look at him. “Because Mycroft is here.”  
Sherlock stopped dead, looking up slowly. His gaze shifted from John to Mycroft and down again, his mouth set in a grimace. He walked into the living room, stumbling.  
“Are you drunk?” John frowned. Sherlock didn’t reply, stumbling his way to his chair and flopping into it. Mycroft strode in from the kitchen, leaning on his umbrella in front of where Sherlock sat. A minute or so of silence passed. Sherlock hiccuped.  
“You’ve been out with Father.” Mycroft stated. Sherlock’s gaze flickered up to him and then down again. He looked away. John stared.  
“So is that where you went the last time you said you were seeing Mycroft?”  
“Fuck off,” Sherlock slurred, his hands running through his curls. He slumped back in his chair.  
“Did he touch you, Sherlock?” Mycroft said quietly.  
“Fuck _off!_ ” Sherlock said again, pulling his knees to his chest and lying his head on them. Mycroft sighed, then motioned with his head for John to join him in the kitchen.  
“I don’t understand,” John said the moment they were out of earshot. “Why would he go back?”  
“Stockholm syndrome,” Mycroft said simply. “He’s in a very vulnerable state right now, John. He goes back because he feels bonded to our father, after having been emotionally abused and manipulated by him for so long. It’s hard for him to break that cycle. And then our father appeals to Sherlock’s vices - gets him drunk, or high. Then he takes advantage, all while making Sherlock think he was in control.”  
John muttered something, turning around and starting a pot of tea.  
“It’s okay to be angry, John.” Mycroft smiled wryly.  
“I’m not angry,” John murmured. “I’m just worried. And I’m sad for Sherlock.”  
“You don’t have to worry about it anymore,” Mycroft assured him. “I have it taken care of. This situation was the proof I needed.” He tapped his umbrella on the ground and turned towards the door. “I’ll be in touch, John. Make sure you take care of him, okay?” And with that, he was gone.  
John padded into the living room, holding a glass of water in front of Sherlock’s curled up form until the other reluctantly took it, downing half of it with ease.  
“How much did you drink?” John asked quietly, tugging Sherlock off the chair. He settled them onto the sofa, setting the glass on the coffee table so Sherlock could lay his head in his lap. He ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair gently.  
“Too much,” Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “I feel sick.”  
John used one hand to pull at Sherlock’s sleeves, examining the bruises scattered along his arms quietly.  
“He beat me,” Sherlock said quietly, staring up at the ceiling and purposely avoiding John’s gaze. “Because I had hickies.” John noticed then, for the first time, Sherlock’s bleeding lip and nose - his piercings had been forcibly ripped out.  
“Are you in pain?” John asked quietly. “I can get you some painkillers.”  
“I’m fine for the moment,” Sherlock murmured. “Alcohol’s numbing everything.” He pushed his head into John’s hand, and John resumed petting his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes, and after a moment, he was snoring softly. John watched him. He looked peaceful.


	10. A Surprise for John

Sherlock groaned before he opened his eyes, cursing the sun out loud as it’s rays streamed in through the living room window. He sat up slowly, his head pounding, and reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. Everything hurt.  
“John?” He called out weakly, looking around. There was a note on the coffee table.  
Sherlock - Gone to classes for the day, should be home around six. Try to stay alive until then and make sure to eat something. Love, John.  
Sherlock stood, swayed for a moment, and then darted to the bathroom, pushing the lid open just in time to vomit into the toilet bowl. He wretched again, coughing, then collapsed against the bathroom wall, flushing the toilet in defeat.   
He got to his feet slowly, gripping the edge of the counter for support. He ran the tap, cupping some water in his hand and slurping it into his mouth. He rinsed and spit, closing his eyes as he fought back another wave of nausea. After a moment of swaying on the spot, he pulled up his t-shirt, running his fingers carefully over the blood-soaked gauze haphazardly taped to his abdomen. He pulled the gauze back, wincing at the sight of the large, purple and blue, blood-crusted gash ripping through his side, quivering with his every breath. It began to bleed again as he pulled the gauze off completely.  
“No, shit, no.” He muttered, fumbling in the drawer under the counter for more gauze as blood poured from his wound and down his side in a steady stream. “No, c’mon, fuck.” He hastily pressed the fresh gauze to his abdomen, applying pressure as best he could with one hand as his other hand fumbled for tape. Ripping the tape off with his teeth, he pressed it onto the gauze and smoothed it over, trying to blink away his light-headedness and praying that the bleeding would stop soon.  
With the wound at least halfway taken care of, Sherlock shuffled his way from the bathroom back into the living room, collapsing on the couch with exhaustion and running his hands roughly over his face. He glanced at the clock next to the cow skull above the mantle; it was almost six already.  
Sherlock leaned back against the crease of the couch, trying not to lose his consciousness. He closed his eyes - sleep, just for a few minutes, until John gets home.

“Sherlock?” John tried to shake him awake. “Sherlock?!” He pressed his hands against the growing blood stain in Sherlock’s t-shirt, trying not to panic as he dug his phone out of his pocket with his other hand. Sherlock was limp and almost lifeless beneath him. John rang an ambulance as best he could with his shaking voice.  
He paced the waiting room anxiously, keeping his hands shoved in his pocket to stop them from shaking. How much longer until Mycroft was going to arrive?  
As if on cue, the older Holmes brother appeared. John figured he must have left in a rush - no umbrella, and his face looked flushed.  
“How bad is it?”  
“The wound was deeper than they first thought,” John mumbled, his heart in his stomach. “Organ damage. They had to take him to surgery to fix it.”  
“Any official cause?”  
“We both know it was that bastard that caused it,” John snapped. Mycroft was prepared to retort when they were interrupted by an orderly.  
“Mr. Holmes?”  
“Yes?” Mycroft replied cordially, turning to her. She looked scared.  
“Well, um, we weren’t sure you were aware, but it appears - erm - “ She looked down at her feet. “Sherlock is pregnant, and we weren’t sure how attached he was to the pregnancy in question.”  
John’s heart stopped, a lump in his throat as Mycroft turned to him. He couldn’t speak.  
“Sherlock’s pregnant?” He managed quietly, and he felt a bit sick.   
“You didn’t know?” Mycroft arched his eyebrows at John. John shook his head, running his hand over his mouth as he began to pace.  
“Is the baby in danger?” Mycroft asked. “Was it harmed in any way when the wound happened?”  
“It doesn’t appear so, but the surgery did cause the fetus to go into mild distress,” the nurse explained. “There is a very, very slim chance of losing the baby, but it is possible. We just wanted to know if this was planned and wanted.”  
“No,” John shook his head, his voice quiet. “No, I don’t think he even knows.”  
“Just do everything you can to keep them both alive,” Mycroft told her. “We’ll confer with Sherlock after he’s out of the woods.”  
The nurse nodded and bustled away. Mycroft approached John slowly.  
“You two geniuses didn’t think to use protection, John?”  
“I didn’t know he could still get pregnant,” John muttered, running his hands nervously through his hair. “I didn’t...I mean..”  
“You didn’t think to ask him?” Mycroft murmured, his eyes boring into John. “He’s not stable enough to handle this kind of thing, John. Not with the trauma he’s endured.”  
“It’s not like I impregnated him on fucking purpose,” John muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. “I can’t believe…”  
The nurse returned. “He’s asleep at the moment, but he should be waking up soon, if you’d like to see him.”  
Mycroft and John followed her through the waiting room to a private hospital room, closing the door behind them. Sherlock was asleep on the hospital bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, the covers pulled to his chest. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath; his eyelids fluttered as they both took a seat at his bedside. John couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s stomach.  
“Mycroft?” Sherlock said blearily, his eyes opening slowly. Mycroft smiled at him.  
“Hello, brother mine.”  
Sherlock scrabbled at his face, ripping the oxygen mask and throwing it off to the side in what seemed to be a sort of panicked frenzy. “Am I in hospital?”  
“Yes, Sherlock. Your stab wound was bleeding so profusely you lost consciousness.” Mycroft crossed his hands in front of him, observing Sherlock quietly. Sherlock rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut in silent pain as he did so, one hand cradling his abdomen. John realised he was staring and forced himself to look away.  
“What is it?” Sherlock murmured, staring at the two. “You’re not telling me something.”  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, casting a dark look at John before continuing. “The wound you sustained caused the baby some distress.”  
Sherlock looked unsurprised at this; he exhaled slowly as he looked at John and then away again. “Did it sustain any significant harm?”  
“No,” Mycroft murmured. “But they weren’t sure how attached to the pregnancy you were, and neither did we.”  
“I didn’t even know,” John murmured despite himself. His hands were still shaking. Sherlock bit his scabbed-up lip.  
“The point of the matter is,” Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly. “Is that I can have it taken care of, if you wish.”  
They sat in silence for a moment.  
“May I speak to John alone?” Sherlock said softly. Mycroft nodded once and stood, excusing himself from the room gracefully.  
“You knew and you didn’t tell me.” John said into the air between them.  
“I didn’t know how,” Sherlock muttered, staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t know how you would react.”  
“And what is that supposed to mean?”  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “It just means that I’m not sure how well you would have taken it.”  
John sighed. “We aren’t stable enough for a baby, Sherlock.”  
“I know,” Sherlock nodded. “So you don’t want to keep it?”  
“No, Sherlock. I just don’t think it’s the right choice.” John took his hand. “But what you want matters too.”  
“Of course I don’t want to keep it,” Sherlock muttered. “As you said, we aren’t financially or emotionally well enough to sustain another life form. Nor am I mentally stable enough to withstand pregnancy and the resulting lifestyle.”  
“Alright,” John nodded slowly. “Guess we agree then.”

Sherlock was discharged a few days later, with the promise that he would take all of his antibiotics and stay in Baker Street on bedrest with John to look after him. John felt something was different; Sherlock shuffled around the house in sweatpants and one of Mycroft’s old Oxford hoodies, his eyes downcast, his body language stiff, sad almost. He sulked on the couch and didn’t eat much; he only spoke to correct the telly, refused any tea John offered him, and slept for the majority of the day. John started to become worried when he found empty beer bottles underneath their bed.  
“Sherlock,” he sighed, walking into the living room to find Sherlock nursing a beer on the couch. “C’mon, love.” He gently pulled the bottle from Sherlock’s hand; Sherlock didn’t protest, instead staring blankly at the telly.  
“The appointment’s tomorrow, Sherlock. You can’t show up there drunk.”  
“Why not?” Sherlock murmured, his voice hoarse from lack of use. “It’s not like I have to put in any work. They just pull it out of me.”  
“You’re supposed to be sober,” John murmured, setting the beer on the coffee table and sitting beside him. “Feeding your addiction does nothing but hurt you.”  
Sherlock reached over and grabbed the beer from the table, taking a large swig of it. “It’s just transport, John.”  
John sighed, pulling the beer from his hand again. “Do you want to talk about what’s compelling you to drink at the moment?”  
“No, John.”  
“Because you’ve been exhibiting symptoms of depression ever since you got out of the hospital.”  
“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock leaned over, curling up in the fetal position on the couch. “I’m just going to go to sleep.”  
“You’ve been sleeping all day, Sherlock.” John said, but only got a soft snore in reply. He sighed, watching his boyfriend for a moment before resigning himself back to the kitchen.

“Up and at ‘em,” John murmured, gently pulling Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock grumbled, retreating into his hoodie as he slowly stood. John noticed that Sherlock’s entire body was shaking; he silently followed John to the car, climbing into the front seat before he even began to put his boots on.  
“Feeling okay?” John murmured as he started the car. Sherlock only stared out of the window in reply.  
The drive to the private clinic wasn’t a long one from Baker Street; as such, they arrived much earlier than John anticipated, and opted to wait in the car until they got closer to the time of the appointment. Sherlock lit a cigarette.  
“You don’t have to do this,” John said after a moment. “If you want to keep the baby.”  
“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock said quietly, taking a draw from his cigarette.  
“So you do, then?” John insisted. “Want to keep it?”  
“Of course not.” Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes, but John still felt as if Sherlock was lying. Sherlock took another draw off his cigarette.  
“Come on, then.” He said, dropping his cigarette on the ground and crushing it with the heel of his boot as he got out of the car. He began walking towards the clinic, his face unreadable. John shoved his car keys into his pocket and followed.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said to the woman at the front desk. She got up and gestured for them to follow her, leading them to a room at the end of a very long hallway. She handed Sherlock a paper gown and left the room, closing the door behind her. Sherlock undressed quickly; John couldn’t help but stare at the already noticeable bump as Sherlock pulled on the dressing gown. Sherlock climbed into the bed, laying flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling.  
“Alright,” the doctor said as she entered, taking a seat on the stool in front of the bed and pulling on latex gloves. “Since this isn’t your first time here, I assume you don’t need me to go through the procedure step by step with you?”  
Sherlock shook his head, putting his feet in the stirrups and leaning his head back. The doctor lifted the gown and did a quick exam.  
“Alright,” she said again, standing slowly and pulling off the gloves. “Give me a few minutes, and then we’ll get started.” She disappeared from the room.  
“What did she mean,” John asked, staring at Sherlock. “This isn’t your first time? You’ve been here before?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly, not meeting his gaze. “My father...was not a very careful man.”  
John’s stomach churned, his heart dropping into his stomach. “Oh.”  
They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts until the doctor returned.  
She snapped on some fresh gloves. “Let’s get started.”


	11. But With You, I Could

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this fic is all over the place lajdfopqewi i'm sorry i'm a shit writer

Sherlock let them into the flat, throwing his keys onto the floor before kicking off his boots. John peeled off his jacket, watching Sherlock pad over to his chair and curl up in it.  
“You have questions,” Sherlock said, as John took the chair opposite him.  
“Yes,” John conceded. “But I don’t know if they’re appropriate to ask.”  
“Just ask them, John.”  
“So your dad,” John began, leaning back in his chair. “He got you pregnant?”  
“Three times,” Sherlock nodded, crossing his legs beneath him. “The first time was when I was twelve, then again when I was fifteen, and again when I was seventeen. Mycroft took care of it each time.”  
“So Mycroft knew.”  
“Of course he knew,” Sherlock scowled. “It’s not like I could hide it from him.”  
“So if he knew, why didn’t he do anything sooner?”  
“My father moved to the States and took me with him, right after the first abortion.” Sherlock murmured. “I had managed to save enough money to run away to London by the time I was fifteen, but after I got here I realised that I was pregnant again. I was still homeless at the time; afterwards is when Lestrade took me in. When I was seventeen, my father came to visit me from the states; Mycroft and Lestrade tried to keep him away, but I…” He paused, looking away. “Anyway, he did what he did and then left for the states again. That’s when I got into drugs, after the third one.”  
“Your father got arrested in the States, then.”  
“Yes.”  
“And came back to London on his release?”  
“Yes.”  
“But he’s not the one that got you pregnant this time.”  
“No.” Sherlock said softly.   
“But he - “  
“There was touching, yes.” Sherlock closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. “But it didn’t go beyond that.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me he stabbed you?”  
“Because I didn’t want you to worry.”  
“You could have died from blood loss.”  
“I considered the chances of that minimal based on what I knew of the extent of the injury at the time.”  
“But you knew about being pregnant before he stabbed you.”  
“Yes.”  
“Were you going to tell me?”  
Sherlock paused, looking like he was at a loss for words. “I don’t know, John. Telling the father about an unwanted pregnancy hasn’t gone over well for me in the past.”  
“You didn’t know it was unwanted.”  
“Please, John. We just met two months ago, you’re a med student, and I’m - “ He stopped short, a lump in his throat.  
“You’re what?” John leaned forward.  
“I knew you didn’t want to have a baby with someone like me.” Sherlock said quietly. “Damaged goods, and a freak on top of it.”  
“Sherlock,” John said softly. “I didn’t want to get an abortion because of you. I love you, everything about you. You’re not a freak and you’re not damaged goods.”  
Sherlock sat ruminating on this for a moment, his expression blank. After a moment, he stood.  
“I’m going out.”  
“Out?”  
“Yes.” He strode to the door, slipping on his boots and pulling on his leather jacket. “I just need to be alone for a little while, John. Don’t wait up.” And with that, he disappeared down the stairs.  
John sat back in his chair with a sigh, his head in his hands, before getting up to make some tea. It was going to be a long night.

“Sherlock, answer your damn phone. It’s been six hours since you’ve left, and it’s getting late. I’m worried.” John hit the ‘end call’ button and tossed his phone onto the couch, downing the rest of his tea in a desperate attempt to soothe his anxiety. His phone rang; he jumped to get it, hitting the ‘answer’ button without even seeing who it was first.  
“Sherlock - “  
“Is not who you’re talking to at the moment,” Lestrade replied, and John could hear the smirk in his voice. “He is with me, though. Showed up at my door nearly blackout drunk. Keeps saying something about a baby.”  
“What about a baby?”  
“That he’s killed one, or something.” Lestrade replied. “Care to explain that one?”  
“Not at the moment, no.” John sighed. “Do you want me to come pick him up?”  
“We’re on our way back to Baker Street right now,” Lestrade told him. “Nearly there.”  
He could hear Sherlock in the backseat of the car, whining drunkenly, sounding tearful. He sighed.  
“I’ll be waiting for you two. I’ll see you when you get here.” He hung up. A few minutes later, he heard a car pull up outside of their Baker Street flat; the door opened, and he could hear Sherlock moving clunkily up the stairs, his footsteps uneven as Lestrade assisted him.  
“Made a baby, but ‘e didn’t want it,” Sherlock was saying, as the two came into the flat, his arm slung around Lestrade’s shoulders. “Didn’ want it, not at all. Killed it, right so.”  
Lestrade deposited him onto the couch, where Sherlock remained face-first in the cushions, mumbling to himself.  
“Been saying that on repeat since he showed up at my door an hour ago,” Lestrade noted. “Reckon he’s been drinking all day.”  
“Yeah, he’s had a rough few days.” John replied in a mutter, his cheeks going slightly red. “Fell off the wagon, you know.”  
“Yeah,” Lestrade nodded, looking at the floor then back up at John, his eyes fiery. “Let me just remind you, John, that I’ve raised him, since he was a young teen. Sherlock’s the closest thing I have to a kid, and if you’ve hurt him, I’m gonna hurt you.”  
“I didn’t hurt him - “  
“Just got me pregnant,” Sherlock said loudly from the couch. Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up, his hand clamping like a vice on John’s shoulder.  
“You what now?”  
“Uh - “ John’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “Erm - “  
“Let ‘im go, Dad.” Sherlock mumbled drunkenly from the couch again, where he had sat up, his face screwed up tight. Lestrade turned to him, letting go of John’s shoulder slowly as his face softened.  
“Dad?” Sherlock mumbled, his head in his hands now.  
“I’m here,” Lestrade said softly, taking a seat beside him. Sherlock leaned his head on Lestrade’s shoulder, sniffling, and John realised that he was crying.  
“He’s dead,” Sherlock mumbled, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.  
“Who?” John blinked. “The baby?”  
“The fetus was never alive, John.” Sherlock snapped, swiping furiously at his eyes. “My father, however, is the one who’s dead.”  
“Oh,” John replied. “Well, that’s a good thing.”  
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be sad.” Sherlock mumbled, his words slurring together. “Doesn’t mean I can’t grieve.”  
Lestrade said nothing, his broad hand rubbing Sherlock’s bony shoulders. “It’s going to be okay, Sherlock. You’re safe now.”  
John sighed quietly, taking residence in his chair and watching the two from afar as Sherlock’s quiet crying filled the room. It eventually faded, softening the room into a gentle silence.  
“Would you mind taking him to bed?” Lestrade asked quietly; Sherlock was mumbling to himself, incomprehensible slurring. “I’ve gotta get back to my flat and work on this triple homicide case.”  
“Of course,” John said quietly, standing and walking over to where they sat. He pulled Sherlock’s lanky, heavy figure to his feet, slinging Sherlock’s skinny arm around his shoulders and making their way towards the hallway.  
“Goodnight, Lestrade.” He said at the corner, smiling appreciatively at the Detective Inspector.  
“Night Dad,” Sherlock slurred, his other hand running along the wall to keep his balance as he started down the corridor.   
“Night boys.” Lestrade waved, then disappeared out the front door. John sat Sherlock on the bed, untying his boots. Sherlock sloppily pulled off his shirt, his fingers struggling at the hem of his binder. He whined in frustration.  
“Here,” John said gently, helping Sherlock wiggle out of the binder. He plucked the Oxford hoodie off of the bedroom floor and handed it to him, keeping his eyes averted as Sherlock tugged it on. He unbuttoned Sherlock’s trousers and slipped them off, then helped Sherlock fold his impossibly long legs onto the bed.  
“Love you,” Sherlock mumbled.  
“Sherlock,” John sighed, running a hand through the soft brunette curls. “Did you want to keep the baby?”  
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, his nostrils flaring as he stared at John, as if realising he was there for the first time that night. “Of course not,” he sighed, then paused. “Maybe.”  
“Sherlock - “  
“You didn’t want it,” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. “And I was scared if I told you I might, you wouldn’t want me.”  
“You know that’s not the case, Sherlock.”  
“John,” Sherlock mumbled.   
“Yes?”  
“I didn’t want the baby,” Sherlock turned onto his back, his breathing labored by his drunkenness, his voice quiet as he faded slowly into sleep. “But with you, I could.”


	12. Babysitter

John, half-asleep, felt the weight of the bed shift, and the warm figure snuggled against him pull away. With a soft groan, he opened one eye, watching Sherlock pull on a pair of ripped jeans.  
“Where are you going?”  
“Work,” Sherlock replied in his baritone voice, sounding already bored with the day that had just begun.  
“Work?” John repeated, reaching out and grabbing Sherlock by the hand. “No, you can’t work. You just had two pretty big operations, you need to rest.”  
“I can’t spend another day moping around this flat,” Sherlock snapped, and John let go of his hand. Sherlock turned to him, his gaze softening.  
“It’s just driving me crazy, John. Making me want to drink and use. Fresh air and work to distract me will be good.”  
“Well I should come with,” John replied, sitting up.  
“What?”  
“I was designated as your caretaker when they discharged you from hospital,” John explained, searching on the ground for his trousers. “If you’re leaving the flat, I’m coming with to keep an eye on you. And to make sure you’re actually going to work and not fucking off all day drinking, like you were yesterday.”  
Sherlock scowled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”  
“The past few days have proven otherwise,” John retorted, buttoning up his jeans. “Besides, quit complaining, you get to spend the whole day with your boyfriend and I’ll have a chance to get some homework done while you’re tattooing.”  
“Fine,” Sherlock sighed, pulling his mobile from his pocket. “Let me just text Tony and OK it with him first.”  
“Love you,” John murmured, kissing him on the cheek. Sherlock only blushed a little, redness creeping up the back of his neck and down the tips of his ears.  
“I love you too,” he mumbled, a huge grin overtaking his face. John wondered if he remembered anything from last night.  
“Let me change your dressing before we leave,” John made his way to the hallway bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. When he returned, Sherlock had changed from his hoodie into a half-tank grey binder. John got on his knees in front of him, setting the first aid kit onto the floor and opening it. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, his hands awkwardly folded against his chest.  
“You okay?” John asked, his breath hot against Sherlock’s abdomen. Sherlock blushed hard and nodded, biting his lip.  
“You sure?” John asked again, peeling off the old gauze and applying antiseptic to the stitches on Sherlock’s side. Sherlock nodded again, his breath hitching in a way that told John it wasn’t from the antiseptic stinging. He smirked, applying fresh gauze and tape, then pressed a slow, sensual kiss to Sherlock’s naval.  
“C’mon, John.” Sherlock mumbled, his cheeks positively crimson now. John did it again, lower this time, his hands massaging the outer parts of Sherlock’s thighs. He unbuttoned Sherlock’s jeans and let them fall, smirking even wider when he saw the bulge in Sherlock’s black and blue spotted boxers. He licked it, the fabric rough on his tongue, and Sherlock made an obscene, delicious sound, flinging one arm out to catch himself on the desk as his knees buckled.  
“John.” His fingers threaded through John’s blond hair and tugged, a moan escaping from somewhere deep in his throat.  
“Sherlock?” John murmured around the bulge, nuzzling it with his cheek. “Has anyone ever blown you before?”  
“No, no,” Sherlock shook his head, his voice pitching an octave lower as John licked it again. “John, _Christ._ ”  
“What a shame,” John smirked, his fingers running across the dampening crotch of Sherlock’s boxers. “But I’m glad to be the first, because _you’re mine_.”  
And in one swift motion, he was standing, pushing Sherlock so that he was sitting on the desk as he pulled off Sherlock’s boxers at the same time. He dropped to his knees again, nudging Sherlock’s legs open with his hands, pressing a hard kiss on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock shuddered, his hand re-tangling in John’s hair and tugging, a soft whine escaping him.  
“We’re - we’re gonna be late,” he managed, his voice breathy.   
“Don’t care,” John replied, running his tongue broadly up Sherlock’s folds and taking Sherlock’s rock-solid cock into his mouth. Sherlock made another obscene noise, his head falling back. John sucked hard, his tongue swiping against the head, then pulled back, his finger circling Sherlock’s entrance. “If only your brother could see you now.”  
That got a reaction, Sherlock’s eyes snapping open, his pupils blown wide as he got ten times wetter, slickness spilling over John’s finger. John eagerly lapped it up, his tongue folding expertly into Sherlock’s hole, engulfing his cock all in one action. Sherlock gasped and quivered, squeezing his legs shut; John pushed them apart with his hands, his tongue working furiously as he sucked on Sherlock’s cock.  
“John, John, I’m - “ Sherlock fell into mindless babbling, his entire body melting and coming undone above John. John didn’t even pause, pushing two fingers into him and twisting as he sucked hard and fast; Sherlock came almost immediately, clenching and quivering as he cried out John’s name. John sucked him off through it, feeling smug and pleased with himself as Sherlock collapsed against the desk, his head falling back. John leveled with him, sucking a love bite onto Sherlock’s exposed neck.  
“We’re definitely late now,” Sherlock murmured weakly, forehead shining with sweat. His legs were shaking. “That was worth it, though.”  
“Glad you agree,” John muttered smugly, catching Sherlock’s lips in a deep kiss. “Now put your pants on.”  
“I can’t stand yet,” Sherlock murmured, blushing hard, and John smirked.  
“I’ve excelled at my goal then.” He stood between Sherlock’s legs, his smirk fading as his fingers ran from smooth marble skin to brushing against rough, fresh cuts lining Sherlock’s hips.  
“Sherlock,” he said softly, looking down at the cuts beneath his hands.  
“Just forget about them,” Sherlock mumbled, reaching down and pulling his boxers up so that the cuts were covered. He stood, moving past John to where his ripped jeans were and tugging them back on, buttoning them without looking at his boyfriend.  
“I’m not just going to ‘forget about them’, Sherlock.” John snapped. “You’ve been cutting yourself for who knows how long, and I’m just supposed to pretend like it’s not happening?”  
“It’s better than doing drugs,” Sherlock mumbled, still not looking at John as he selected a button-up from the wardrobe.  
“Where is it?” John said, standing with his hands on his hips and watching Sherlock like a hawk.  
“What?”  
“The _blade_.” John growled, his teeth gritted. “You got rid of my pistol, I’m getting rid of every single thing you could use to hurt yourself.”  
They stared at each other for several long moments. After a moment, Sherlock looked at the ground.  
“Taped under the left side drawer in the bathroom.”  
John was out of the room in seconds, leaving Sherlock standing there staring at his feet. John flipped on the bathroom light and pulled the drawer out, bending over to look at the underside. True to Sherlock’s word, there were two razor blades and a baggie of white powder taped to the wood. He tugged them out carefully as Sherlock came to a halt in the doorway, his face pale. They made eye contact once again as John dropped the contraband into the toilet, flushing it with more force than necessary.  
“Ready for work?” He said casually, pushing past Sherlock to collect his bookbag. Sherlock lit a forlorn cigarette.  
“John - “  
“We’re boyfriends for a reason, Sherlock!” John snapped, and Sherlock flinched. “You’re supposed to tell me these things, not hide them like the fucking junkie you are.”  
Silence enveloped them; Sherlock stared at the ground, puffing quietly on his cigarette.  
“I’m sorry,” John sighed after a moment. “That was harsh.”  
“I’m not good at this, John.” Sherlock said quietly. “I’ve never had any experience with this kind of thing, okay? I don’t know all of the rules.”  
“I know, love.” John replied, crossing the space between them and kissing Sherlock softly. “Let’s just go, yeah?”  
Sherlock nodded slowly, nuzzling John softly for a moment before they made their way towards the door.


	13. Mums

They entered the tattoo parlour an hour after they were supposed to.

“Hi Marla,” Sherlock smiled apologetically at the tatted-up receptionist as they walked in, holding the door open for John behind him. “Hi, Tony. Sorry we’re late.”

“Aw, I didn’t know it was bring your boyfriend to work day,” called one of the artists from her chair, smirking.

“That’s because you don’t have one, Donovan.” Sherlock replied without missing a beat, leading John to one of the cubicles in the middle of the shop. John stopped as Sherlock settled at the small desk in the cubicle to get ready for the day, his eyes falling on a small polaroid of himself hanging on the cubicle wall. He smiled softly.

“You keep a picture of me in your space?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied without looking up from his desk. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” John murmured, taking the fold-out chair and settling in next to Sherlock at the desk. “When’s your first appointment?”

“Thirty minutes from now,” Sherlock said absently, all of his attention focused intently on finishing the drawing in front of him. John watched him for a moment in admiration, then pulled his textbook from his bag and began on his homework, keeping himself to one corner of the desk. They worked in silence for a little while, each of them lost in their respective work.

“Fox,” Marla called from the front. “Your ten o’ clock’s here.”

“Send them back,” Sherlock called in reply, not looking up from his artwork. A young man in his twenties appeared; his skin was perfect, an olive brown, complimented by bright green eyes and untidy black hair. He cleared his throat; Sherlock looked up, immediately stiffening.

“Hello, Victor.” He said, his voice like stone.

“Sherlock,” the man - Victor - nodded. “Hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock muttered, gesturing to the chair. “Take a seat while I get everything ready.”

John heard sniggering and turned around to see the girl, Donovan, laughing to herself behind her hands as she watched Sherlock wash his hands and pull on non-latex gloves.

“What’s so funny?” John asked her, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Ignore her,” Sherlock said in an undertone, setting up the ink before he slowly and carefully pressed the design to Victor’s arm. It was a large, intricate dragon, its slender body winding around Victor’s bicep.

“This your new boyfriend?” Victor asked, nodding to John. John smiled awkwardly.

“That,” Sherlock murmured, prepping his tattoo machine, “Is none of your business.”

“No need to get snarky, Sherl.”

“I’m being professional,” Sherlock replied, his gaze steady as he stared Victor down. “And don’t you ever call me that again, or this machine won’t be the only thing I hurt you with.”

John blinked; he would never have imagined Sherlock as an inherently violent person, and yet the threat sent shivers even down his spine. Victor, however, took it all in stride, smiling cheerfully.

“Looks a little vanilla for you, Holmes.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, switching on the machine. “And stay still.” He bent his head down, putting needle to skin without any hesitation. Victor did as he was told, smirking the entire hour it took for Sherlock to tattoo him. John sat and watched in fascination, letting out a soft ‘wow’ when Sherlock sprayed the fresh ink with green soap and then wiped it with a soft paper towel.

“Pay at the counter,” he practically spat, not looking at Victor as he snapped off his gloves. “Marla can take care of it.”

“Thanks, Sherl.” Victor murmured, and to John’s surprise, he swooped down and pecked Sherlock on the forehead, disappearing before Sherlock could release any of the rage contorted in his face.

“Who - ?” John began, but stopped when he saw Sherlock’s face. Sherlock watched Victor leave, breathing heavily, then stood, his boots pounding heavily on the shop’s tile.

“I need a cigarette.” He muttered, and disappeared out of the parlour before John could stop him.

“What in the hell..?” John muttered. Donovan snickered loudly.

“You think you’re the only boyfriend he’s had?” She called to John. “Only the others weren’t nearly as nice, mind you.”

He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Yeah, Victor was the one before you.” She nodded casually. “The Freak used to come in with bruises all over his face and arms, sometimes he’d be hungover, one time he walked in and there was still a goddamn needle hanging out of his arm.” She looked John up and down. “And before that bloke was Jim, and Jim’s been the worst of them all so far. Tony found the Freak by the dumpster out back once, beat all to hell, couldn’t even tell him what day it was.”

John felt sick. “So that Victor guy - “

“Is the Freak’s ex, yeah.” She nodded, the both of them looking up as Sherlock re-entered the shop, looking a lot less angry. Tony stopped him on his way in.

“You okay?” He asked quietly. “Take a breather, if you need to.”

“I’m good,” Sherlock breathed, nodding as he pushed past Tony and made his way back to the cubicle. He didn’t look at John, instead going straight to the bottom left-hand drawer of the cubicle desk and pulling out a thick, cable-knit black jumper. After a moment of wonderment, John realised it was his own, watching Sherlock pull it on and push up the sleeves as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

“How long have you had that?”

“Since the first night you stayed at Baker Street,” Sherlock mumbled, heat rising in his cheeks. “I swiped it from the laundry before you could take it back.”

John’s heart fluttered. “Aw, Sherlock.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered, trying to hide his smile. “It helps calm me down when I’m stressed.”

“Fine,” John replied, kissing him on the cheek. “But this means I get to wear your leather jacket when I want.”

Sherlock’s cheeks immediately turned crimson. “Only if you promise to wear only the leather jacket.”

“Oi!” Donovan launched a paper wad at the two of them. “Keep your dirty talking in the bedroom, Freak!”

“Yeah, make sure you wear knee pads next time you stay the night at Andersons, Donovan.” Sherlock shot back, and John collapsed against him in a fit of giggles.

“You’re a right prick, you are.” John mumbled into his shoulder.

“Your prick, though.”

“Mmmm, what about him?” John murmured, grinning. “Besides the fact that he’s very happy right now?”

“Better quit while you’re ahead, Watson.”

“You’re the one always getting me hot and bothered in public,” John muttered under his breath, pressing a quick, hot kiss to the underside of Sherlock’s neck.

“What can I say?” Sherlock leaned back in his chair, shrugging nonchalantly. “It’s one of my many kinks, John.”

“Seriously you two, knock it off before I file a complaint.” Donovan chided, not looking up from her desk. With a dramatic sigh, John got up from the fold out chair and approached the bookcase containing Sherlock’s portfolios, arranged by style. Picking up the binder labeled ‘blackwork’, John began to flip through it.

“You should get one,” Sherlock told him from across the cubicle. “I’ll do it myself, even; won’t take long, and my next appointment is in three hours, anyway.”

“I dunno, Sherlock,” John murmured, flipping the page.

“I promise to be gentle,” Sherlock replied, smirking against John’s neck as he wrapped his arms around John’s torso from behind. John flipped the page once more and stopped, running his hands over an amazing black and grey bundle of chrysanthemums.

“These.”

Sherlock had stopped breathing, his eyes trained on the paper before them, running his slender fingers over them absently. “Interesting.”

“Interesting? What’s interesting about mums?”

A soft smile was playing on Sherlock’s lips. He pulled his right sleeve up more, showing John an identical piece on the inside of his forearm, only this one was ordained by two dates, each on the top and bottom.

“I drew that piece for my mum,” Sherlock said quietly, his eyes glinting almost mischievously. “Get it? Mum, mums. I tattooed it onto myself after I drew it.”

“What’re the two dates?” John asked softly, running his fingers over the aged tattoo.  
“Top one is when she died, and the bottom one is the date of the first abortion.” Sherlock kept his voice low so none of the other artists would hear. “It’s just interesting, that that’s the one you chose instinctively. You chose it without even knowing that it’s the biggest part of me I’ve put out in the world.”

“I didn’t know your mum was dead.”  
“Suicide,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, returning to the desk to work on the stencil for John’s tattoo. “Attempted murder suicide, to be correct.”

“Attempted murder-suicide?”

“Drove our car into the tree when I was an infant,” Sherlock explained, his voice flat and emotionless. “She died, I didn’t.”

“Wow,” John muttered. Your backstory just gets shittier and shittier, Sherlock.

“Don’t make people into heroes, John.” Sherlock said quietly, focusing intently on the stencil in front of him. It was as if he had read John’s mind. “Just because I have a ‘tragic’ upbringing does not mean I am saintly as a result.”

“I know,” John took his place back on the fold out chair, watching Sherlock work.

“Have an idea of where you want to get it?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes, not looking up from the task at hand.

“Oh, erm,” John thought for a moment. “I guess I’ll get it the same place Victor got his.”

Sherlock dropped his drawing pen, his jaw going slack as he turned to John slowly. “Really?”

“You like your boys with tattoos, hm?” John teased, kissing his jaw, only Sherlock didn’t smile.

“The only man I like is you, John.”

“I know, love.” John said gently, frowning slightly. “I was just teasing.”

“Once again, you and I have very different definitions of teasing.”

“I don’t like to do your kind of teasing in public.”

“Boring.” Sherlock muttered, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You really are vanilla, John. I called it from the moment I saw you.”

“Ah yes, your wonderful pickup lines,” John replied, a chuckle escaping him.

“They worked, didn’t they?” Sherlock deadpanned, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye with a smile. He reached out with his left hand, patting the tattooing chair. “Take a seat.”

John did as he was told, removing his shirt as he stretched out on the chair. Sherlock stopped, his eyebrows going up in mild alarm.

“Getting it on my ribs,” John explained, smirking at Sherlock’s expression.

“That’s one of the most painful places,” Sherlock chided, his eyes roving over John’s exposed torso, falling on the scar on John’s shoulder. “But if you insist.”

“It’s worth it to have seen that look on your face when I took my shirt off.” John settled onto his back. “Did you have any questions?”

“About?”

“The scar,” John murmured. “I can make observations too.”

“I don’t want to be invasive,” Sherlock murmured, prepping his machine.

“I got it when I was in foster care,” John offered, watching Sherlock with a careful gaze. “One of the other kids had found a gun, and it went off when we were in the backyard.”

Sherlock was staring at him now, the movement of his hands automatic as he continued to prep everything. “You were in foster care?”

“Just for a few years, when I was younger.” John nodded, stiffening as Sherlock moved the needle towards him. He squirmed.

“Stay still,” Sherlock said softly, putting a hand on the upper part of John’s rib cage to steady him. “Here we go.”

He pressed the needle to skin and John gasped in pain, screwing his eyes shut tight.  
“It’ll go numb soon,” Sherlock told him reassuringly, keeping his movements slow and light as he traced over the stencil. John leaned his head back and focused on anything else he could, sighing in relief when the left side of his rib cage went numb a half hour in, just as Sherlock said it would. A little while later, Sherlock finally turned off the machine, cleansed the fresh ink with green soap, then pressed a gentle kiss to the raw skin before pulling back.

“Take a look,” he murmured, nodding to the mirror.

"Wow," John gasped softly, examining his rib cage in the mirror. The bundle of chrysanthemums, pink with rawness, were beautifully realistic in shades of black and grey. They were incredibly detailed, the petals almost life-like against John's skin.

"It's beautiful."

"Thanks," Sherlock came up to stand behind him, his hand absently playing with the hair at the nape of John's neck. His cheeks looked to be tinted green, as if he was ill.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm always a bit...off, after each...procedure," Sherlock said quietly, his face buried in John's neck. He swayed a bit on the spot. "It's a lot of pressure on the body."

With a small groan, he let go of John's waist and made his way slowly back to the desk, his tongue thick and dry. He pulled up the email from the client of his next appointment and printed off the attached tattoo design. John took up residence in his fold out chair once again, opening his textbooks to work on his homework and keeping a careful but discreet eye on Sherlock. The rest of the day passed uneventful, although the entire time, John’s mind whirled with the new information about Sherlock’s past.


	14. Christmas

"I love you."  
Sherlock peeled his eyes open to find John staring at him. He tried to blink away some of the sleep, wrapping an arm around John's middle and drawing him closer.  
"I love you too."  
"Merry Christmas," John told him, sitting up. He reached over to the bedside table, presenting Sherlock with a black velvet box. Sherlock sat up as well, taking it with a bit of surprise. He opened it to find a diamond ring.  
"John?"   
"Marry me, Sherlock Holmes."  
Sherlock's heart began to beat very fast. He stared down at the ring with his mouth agape, at a loss for words.  
"You're serious?"  
John chuckled, kissing him on the jaw. "Of course I'm serious, love. Marry me. We can have the wedding in the spring."  
"You want to marry me?" Sherlock couldn't help the disbelief in his voice. "After everything, you want to marry me? Still?"  
"Of course I do," John took Sherlock's free hand in his own. "I want to marry you now more than ever, Sherlock. If you want to."  
"Yes. Of course yes, John. Of course I do." Sherlock stared at him. "But we only just met three months ago, you're a med student, and after everything - "  
"We can make it work, Sherlock," John told him earnestly, kissing his hand. "We can figure it out. I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Maybe even....maybe even have a baby one day."  
"You mean it?"  
"I mean it, Sherlock."  
Sherlock kissed him, hard, letting it last for a few moments before he pulled away. He took the ring out of the box and slipped it onto his finger. John grinned at him.  
"Let's go decorate the Christmas tree."

Lestrade, like years past, was the first one to arrive at the annual Baker Street Christmas Gathering. He brought a bottle of sparkling water, not missing a beat as he took in the engagement rings and grinned at the two.  
"Congratulation, boys. John, are you finally making an honest man out of my son?"   
Sherlock flushed deeply as John laughed. "Shut up, Lestrade."  
"It's about time you settled down, Sherlock."  
"I'm only twenty three!"  
"Shut up and hug me," Lestrade replied, hugging him tightly. Sherlock actually looked like he might cry, cheeks crimson as he pulled away, taking the bottle of sparkling water and whisking away to the kitchen.  
"Congratulations," Lestrade told John. "Seriously, you're good for him. This is the happiest and the healthiest I've ever seen him."  
"I figured it was time for something good," John muttered, keeping his voice low so Sherlock wouldn't hear. "He was such a wreck at his dad's funeral, it was insane."  
"Sherlock has some weird emotions sometimes," Lestrade nodded sagely. "He loved his dad, even after everything that bastard did to him."  
"Still wish I could've put that bastard in the ground before Mycroft did."   
The two were silent for a moment, until Lestrade stepped over to examine the Christmas tree. It had a 'first Christmas together' ornament hanging near the top - John's idea. Sherlock returned with three glasses of the sparkling water.  
Molly and her boyfriend Thomas were the ones to arrive next.  
"Congratulations," Molly smiled up at Sherlock, pulling him into a hug.  
"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. He turned and shook Thomas' hand. "And of course it's lovely to meet you. Can I get you anything to drink?"  
"Uh, wine, if you have it?"  
The entire room grew still in a way the four could feel but Thomas couldn't. Sherlock, however, smiled. "Of course."  
He whisked away once more and returned with a glass of wine. John looked a bit dumbfounded, and pulled Sherlock to the side.  
"Where did you get wine from?"  
"We had a bottle in the kitchen," Sherlock murmured. "I bought it for our guests tonight."  
"Sherlock..."  
"I'm not going to drink any, John. I have no desire to."  
"Okay, love," John kissed him gently. "I trust you."  
"Thank you," Sherlock paused. "Love."  
It was the first time Sherlock had called John by anything other than his name. John felt heat fanning its way up the back of his neck and his cheeks. He kissed Sherlock again, relishing the way Sherlock's reinstated piercings felt against his own lips.  
The party devolved into chatter as Mrs. Hudson finally joined them, then John's mother. She, too, hugged Sherlock, kissing him warmly on the cheek.  
"So nice to finally meet you! Johnny's told me so much about you. Are your parents coming?"  
John grew incredibly still. Sherlock cleared his throat a bit awkwardly.  
"Both of my parents unfortunately passed.""Oh dear," John's mother hugged him again. "I'm so sorry to hear that, dear."  
Sherlock's mouth was now set in a hard thin line and he looked away, sniffing hard with his back straightened. Instead of replying he went to the window, picking up his violin and nestling it in place under his chin. He began to play Silent Night.  
"I told you we were going to his dad's funeral," John hissed in his mother's ear. She had the sense to look a bit guilty.  
"I thought maybe he still had his mother. That maybe she had remarried or something."  
"No," John shook his head and helped himself to some of the wine. "Killed herself when Sherlock was a baby. Not that I can blame her, seeing the absolute monster she was married to."  
"John Hamish Watson!" His mother slapped him on the shoulder. "That's not nice. It's not good to talk ill of the dead."  
John frankly couldn't give a damn, but instead of arguing with his mother he took a seat in his chair and watched Sherlock from afar. It was easy to the sadness now lining his fiance's shoulders, making them hard and hunched. Sherlock stared out of the window as he played, his mind on his father. Lestrade came to stand beside him.  
"I've always loved this time of year."   
Sherlock stopped playing, turning to look at him. Lestrade stared into his glass of sparkling water.  
"Do you remember the first Christmas you spent with me? It was right after I took you in. You looked horrible. I don't think you weighed more than a hundred pounds. You detoxed on the couch at my flat. Kept saying sorry. Sorry to me, sorry to your brother, sorry to your mum. I went out and got you gifts that night, so you'd have some things to unwrap in the morning even though we didn't have a tree."  
"I remember that," Sherlock nodded quietly, staring down at the ring on his finger. "It was the first time anyone had bought me anything for Christmas."  
"Look how far you've come, Sherlock. You have your own flat, a fiance. People who love you."  
"I know."  
"I know you're still grieving, Sherlock, and there's nothing any of us to do to help that. But you have to recognize that the people here with you right now love you and care for you more than that sick bastard ever did. And he sure as hell didn't raise you - I did."  
"And I'm forever grateful for that, Dad."  
Lestrade squeezed his shoulder. "Love you, 'Lock."  
Sherlock suddenly wrapped his foster father into a hug, face buried in Lestrade's shoulder for a moment. Lestrade was only surprised for a moment before he masked it and quickly hugged Sherlock back.  
"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled. "For everything."

\-- 

It was a bit past midnight when the guests finally left the Baker Street residence. It didn't take long for the two remaining men to take themselves to bed, curled together under the blanket, Sherlock's head on John's chest.  
"Your mother is nice."  
"Yeah?" John asked. Sherlock sat up a bit and reached over him, lighting a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table. "I'm sorry she asked about your parents."  
"It's okay," Sherlock exhaled smoke slowly. "She's a lovely woman, John, and she raised an amazing man."  
"Lestrade didn't do such a bad job either."  
Sherlock let out a soft snort. "Thanks." He took another drag off his cigarette.  
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."  
Sherlock turned to him and smiled. "It's actually Holmes-Watson."


	15. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is completely all fluff and i'm not sorry

"What do you think of Barcelona?"

John looked up from the book in his lap to where Sherlock was typing away on his laptop at the desk. He furrowed his brow. "For?"

"Our sex holiday."

John set the book to the side and crossed the room, planting a kiss on Sherlock's temple. "You mean our honeymoon?"

"That's what I said," Sherlock replied, "sex holiday."

"We don't need a holiday to have sex," John reminded him, tilting Sherlock's chin upward and kissing him deeply. "We could do that any time and anywhere. Like here and now, for instance."

"Sex holiday," Sherlock told him stubbornly, turning his attention back to the laptop screen. "We're a normal couple, John, normal couples go on sex holidays after they get married."

"I know, love," John drew his attention away again, kissing him more deeply this time. "I'm saying we can start on the sex part early."

"Not now," Sherlock pulled away, staring at the computer screen. "I just started."

"Started?"

"John."

It took John a moment to realize. "Oh."

"You sound as disappointed as I feel," Sherlock told him with a small smile.

"Holding up okay?" John asked him. Sherlock nodded.

"I do need you to run down to Tesco for some pads. Oh, and chocolate, please."

John arched an eyebrow to himself. For Sherlock to use the word 'please', he must really have wanted some chocolate.

"I'll go right now, love," John kissed Sherlock's forehead before pulling on his jacket. "You'll be okay by yourself for a minute?"

Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes off the screen in front of him. John smiled to himself and left the flat.

 

He returned a short time later, carrying a bag with a box of pads and packages of chocolate inside. Sherlock was right where John left him, looking contemplative, holding what John assumed to be a hot water bottle to his stomach. John was glad he picked up some paracetamol.

"Feeling okay, love?"

"Cramps," Sherlock muttered, still not looking up from the laptop. John set the Tesco bag onto the desk, taking a peek at the screen. Sherlock was still looking at potential honeymoon spots.

"I got some paracetamol. Give me a moment and I'll make some tea."

"I made tea," Sherlock told him, looking up long enough to give John a kiss. "I love you."

"You made tea?"

Sherlock nodded, attention turned to the laptop once more. "In the kitchen." 

He reached one hand into the bag and extracted the pads, then the paracetamol. He opened the painkillers and popped two into his mouth, swallowing them before picking up the pads and excusing himself to the restroom. John went into the kitchen and made himself some tea.

"You okay, love?" he called as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom some minutes later. Sherlock joined him in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around John from behind and laying his head on John's shoulder.

"My stomach hurts," he rumbled into John's ear, a whine underscoring his voice. "Come to bed and cuddle me."

John's lips turned upwards with a small smile. "Go on. I'll get a book and come join you."

Sherlock nuzzled him for a moment before disappearing to the bedroom. John grabbed his mug of tea and his book from the sitting room before joining him. He laid out in bed, Sherlock's head in his lap, his mug on the bedside table, one hand holding his book and the other carding through Sherlock's curls. It wasn't long before Sherlock was asleep, snoring softly into John's abdomen, and John felt domestic bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's so short. i was originally going to make this end on sixteen chapters, but i might stretch it out more :)


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading 'til the end, folks!

John let himself into the flower shop after lunch, book in hand, and took his seat behind the counter once more. Across the street, through the windows of their respective shops, he and Sherlock made eye contact. John was reminded of the startling eyes that captivated him to begin with. Oh, the places he and Sherlock had been in just a few short months.

And now, in another few short months, they were going to be married. John allowed himself to smile at the thought as he sat back and opened his book. Him, a jumper-wearing medical student, marrying the flirtatious and punk Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock even put up with Harry. And John found himself part of the foster family of Lestrade, Mycroft and Sherlock. He liked it.

The rest of the day in the flower shop passed by mostly uneventful, with a few customers every now and then and Sherlock bringing him coffee a few hours before their shifts were over. When it was time for John to close up shop, he locked the front door and then went across the street to Undead Ink.  
"Done for the day, love?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from where he was tattooing a young man's side. John gave him a quick kiss on the temple before taking a seat in the metal chair at the desk. Instead of opening his book to read some more, he sat back and watched Sherlock. Man, did he love him.  
Sherlock finished the tattoo and straightened, snapping off his gloves. The young man got up and went to the counter to pay as Sherlock turned on his stool, wheeling over to John and giving him a kiss.

"Two more clients and then we're headed home."

"Okay," John nodded, returning the kiss. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Sherlock's next client arrived. In three hours, Sherlock was done for the day. He stood, stretching, John standing up with him.

"See you later Fox," Donovan called as Sherlock and John left the shop. They stepped outside and Sherlock lit a cigarette. Hand in hand, the two walked home.

When they got home, John went into the kitchen to make tea and Sherlock went to the kitchen table to check on his various experiments. The two worked in comfortable silence; this was their routine now, work and then home. Home. John thought about the word for a moment. Yes, home was where his love resided, wherever Sherlock was. Wherever Sherlock laid his head was where John wanted to be.

"I love you," Sherlock said suddenly, as if reading John's mind. John hummed, not looking up from the tea. He brought the mug full of tea over to Sherlock, setting it on the scarce empty space of the kitchen table. Sherlock reached down, capturing John's lips with his own. They stood there, kissing, for several long moments until John pulled away, dizzy. Tea forgotten he grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down for another and walking them backwards towards the bedroom.

They laid together side by side afterwards, heaving for breath and grinning to themselves. Sherlock lit a cigarette, watching the smoke unfurl towards the ceiling.

"So much for tea," Sherlock said and John laughed, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

"Shush, you."

They giggled together for a moment before falling into silence, laying together comfortably. Sherlock took a drag off his cigarette. 

"Food?" John asked eventually.

"Shower," Sherlock replied. "Then food."

He got up, pulling on his boxers and stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray on his way towards the bathroom. John was quick to follow.

They ordered Thai takeout after their shower together. John divvied up the food and then the two made their way into the living room.

"Any cases?" John asked him as they sat down. Sherlock had been helping Lestrade out with tough cases lately, something Sherlock enjoyed immensely. Sherlock shook his head as he turned on the television. They dug in.

When they were full, John cleared away their dishes and Sherlock set about reading old case notes, curled up on the couch. John joined him after putting the dishes in the sink, pulling a book down from the shelves and settling into his chair. 

After a little while he looked up at Sherlock, engrossed in the notes, and smiled; this was what he had to look forward to for forever.


End file.
